


The Monster Has A Name

by bastardbones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prison, Amputation, Gang Violence, Gaslighting, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, Hybristophilia, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison Sex, Racism, Sexual Assault, Sexual Tension, Slurs, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Vietnam War, coulda been the 1st to claim the prorok/thace tag but i was weak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8824213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: The year is 1983 and war veteran Takashi Shirogane is serving 28 years for a murder he may not have committed. They say prison changes you. It's an understatement.





	1. I Thought I Killed It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was something that came to me at like 4am and it has been plaguing me since.

“ _Jesus_ , Shiro, what happened to you?”

The dull whiteness of the room never fails to agitate him. The accompanying walls, narrowly bricked and a light suggestion of privacy, seemed akin to the care that went into designing a public bathroom. It reminds him how concepts like intimacy and humility are never actually born rights - they are goddamn _privileges_ . Everyone was watching, everywhere, all the time: the uniformed babysitters in every corner of the room, the security camera’s unflinching eye, the eyes behind the security camera... He’d taken a shower only hours earlier among a sea of bare bodies, lethargically drifting steam his only way of maintaining some semblance of cover. He'd seen the unruly body hair, the scars, the burns, the circumcisions. He'd seen a hundred bodies he never had any business of seeing in the first place, and they were all seeing him too. He had woken up to his cellmate masturbating to a brightly printed issue of _Playboy_ and was only briefly fazed before returning his head to his pillow. He'd overheard phone sex more than once.

What had happened, indeed.

“Shiro,” the voice against his ear, on the telephone, tries again, “ _Your eye_.”

Absently, he reaches towards his left eye socket and experimentally feels for the tender flesh he's expecting to find. It still aches, but its hiss isn’t nearly as harsh. He exhales sharply without meaning to and finally fixes his gaze forward. He's meet with a scuffed, glinting surface. He hardly recognizes the reflection of the dark haired man before him, until he realizes it isn't a reflection at all. It's a window; a thick, glass veil splitting the room in two. Opposite of him sits another man, whose gaze lingers like sparks on a blackening log. It’s a reminder that silence only fuels the bitter beat of Keith Kogane’s heart.

A worn, red leather jacket frames Keith's figure, the opening down the front revealing a Sex Pistols t-shirt from a concert Shiro had attended in the late 70’s. Keith had gotten a handful of Shiro's laundry mixed in with his own, and recognized the shriveled band shirt as being out of place when it came around to folding. It had shrunk several sizes, merely a shadow of its former self, and Keith had apologized profusely; it was a cool shirt. ‘ _It looks better on you anyway_ ,’ Shiro had chuckled, ‘ _See? Perfect fit_.’

They were happier then.

Shiro figures he should say something. He speaks into the receiver.   

“What's a bruise or two?” He means it to sound lighthearted; the beginning of a casual conversation, except he's only got a tight 60 minutes and a lot of explaining to do.

“You're kidding?”

Keith's never really been one for jokes, anyway.

“I barely recognized you when you zombie walked in half a minute ago!” Keith rattles, his voice the outlier among the rooms murmured tones. It perks Shiro up a bit, Keith's indifference to onlookers. The younger man must notice the harshness in his tone, because it lightens with genuine concern. He leans in closer to the glass, as if it'll make a difference, “Shiro, you look like shit… Are you okay?”

It's a loaded question, only because if he'd been asked at literally any other point in the day, in the 24 hour cycle as a matter of fact, the answer would have been a concise _no_. Fuck no. Negative. The only thing that made anything okay ever was the thought of seeing Keith. Like hell it was his own two feet that dragged him from his bunk this morning.

He thinks about telling Keith that, and shudders in the relief it would bring, to expose just a little weakness in a place that promises you a fun ride on a gurney if your chest isn't puffed out every goddamn second. He hasn't let his guard down once since the moment he's arrived.

Well, just once. The black eye was his mark of carelessness. His back had been turned though, and he got them harder, so much harder. He told himself he'd avoid violence above all else, but evidently enough, _not_ fighting back also made you a target. He wanted to be invisible, to fly under the radar to keep himself safe, and most importantly, _uninvolved_.

The tension he felt in the cafeteria this morning, the collection of eyes burning daggers into the back of his head, had suggested something malicious. A group of men, tattoos littering their pale skin and arms crossed over their chests, had stared him down throughout breakfast. Clearly, they meant to intimidate him. They recognized Shiro as the new guy who had sucker punched a fellow inmate only days earlier. It had been self defense, Shiro thought, and it had been done with. In his mind, it was done with the moment a guard had come between Shiro and his unfortunate attacker. Shiro had punched the man only once; just enough to get a message across (the message being “fuck off, please”). Obviously, the man hadn't expected any sort of physical retaliation from Shiro, because the blow had landed him flat on his back with a resounding clamor of hoots and hollers. Somehow, Shiro had forgotten that the entire prison was watching.

He was involved.

He had later discovered he was responsible for partially fracturing one of the inmate’s ribs. He was written up and they put a temporary restriction on his visitations. Instead of the usual three hours, they gave him one.

As if it wasn't already bad enough. He only got to see Keith once every two weeks.

“I'm just so happy you're here,” Shiro says finally, a wistful smile brings some life to his rough features. He's forgotten what Keith's question had been, but decides it probably doesn't matter.

Keith fidgets with the cotton tendrils poking out from the holes of his fingerless gloves, vibrating with uncertainty. He rests himself back and his chair creaks in protest. He momentarily chews at the dead skin ghosting his lips. It was a bad habit. He dismisses the sentimental words, just as Shiro had done his.

“This is such fucking bullshit. You didn't call for 2 days and I was worried that, I don't know, someone jumped you...” His voice trails off with a slight quiver. He refuses Shiro's eye contact, instead his gaze remains trained on the floor, in an attempt to redirect his anger. He tries again, “You do what you have to to protect yourself. I get it. Really. But if shit starts going down, you have to _tell me_.”

“You already have enough to worry about,” Shiro offers quickly, as if over rehearsed, but the sincerity in his tone causes Keith to visibly jerk, as if bitten. The younger man’s borderline purple eyes meet Shiro's sleepless gray gaze. It almost makes Keith want to apologize, although he's done nothing wrong.

“If I don't worry about you, no one else will.”

Shiro knows Keith well enough to understand it isn't a begrudging confession, but rather a simple testament of fact. Keith's brutal honesty was a quality Shiro had always admired, an attribute, he realized, that was lost in most people. Keith didn't beat around the bush; he flicked a match at it and got to the fucking point.

Keith was right. Who else would lose sleep at night over a convicted murderer?

Who else would still be dating him?

“I'm sorry for not calling,” the older man offers gently, “I wasn't sure how to approach it with you, and thought it'd be better left unsaid. I mean, I was going to find a way to tell you, but..” Shiro cuts away from Keith's intense stare for a moment to gather himself.

“You were hoping it would heal before we saw each other again,” Keith finishes plainly.

“Yeah,” Shiro admits.

“If anything were to happen to you, Shiro, no one would tell me. No one would have a goddamn obligation to. When I fill in the visitation forms, you know what I have to write in?” He’s all fire, and he’s growing under gasoline. A guard shifts uncomfortably from Keith's side of the room.

“I have to write in “friend”. That's all I am, just a fucking friend,” His voice grows louder over the phone, audio crackling. Shiro sees the guard adjacent from Keith straighten their posture, mouth twitching in a voiceless order.

“I'm just your queer fucking friend driving all the way out to Dicksvillle _Nevada_ _!_ ” His fist knocks against the glass in time with his punctuation.

Two guards are on either side of the younger man in an instant, and Shiro isn't sure how long Keith's been standing, but he looks startlingly defenseless, if only from his size. They're unarmed, but he stills prays neither touch Keith. Even a well-intentioned gesture from the wrong person could set him off in an instant. Shiro clutches the phone in a white knuckled fist as the shouting escalates, the glass failing to muffle it anymore.

He notices the neighbor to his right innocently peering into his booth.

For a moment, Keith’s rage seems to simmer, and within the calm, Shiro gives a curt knock at the window. Three heads simultaneously snap in his direction. The older man returns the receiver to the side of his face. Hesitantly, Keith reaches for his own telephone and brings it to his ear. Shiro's surprised the guards let him.

His mouth feels impossibly dry. “Keith, I know what you're feeling. I'm not going to tell you what to do; I just want to talk,” Keith's mouth falls into a hard line as live wires spark behind his eyes. He's been holding the anger in, ever since the sentencing, and Shiro watches him struggle to slip it back inside himself, like a needle intended for overdose.

Keith shudders as the poison worms its way back inside his veins.

He sits back down.

“How was your day?”

“ _What?”_ Keith snaps back.

“Tell me about your day, babe.” Shiro tries again, in an attempt to coax Keith into some form of normalcy, even if it was just in an ambiguous, shadow puppet form. He can see the subtle flush of the other man's face and, for a moment he sees something, maybe in a memory, of the two of them sharing a lukewarm beer under the stars.

“I woke up late this morning and, uh…” He pauses for a moment before recalling the events, “I sort of just brushed my teeth and hauled ass here. I almost hit a fucking lizard.” He grimaces at the thought.

“What kind of lizard?”

“I don't know, just a… like a desert lizard, you know? Maybe a horned lizard? The ones with the sharp faces.”

“They always look like they're squinting,” Shiro adds, familiar with the native reptile. He sees all kinds of lizards hanging from the courtyard fence, but rarely did any of them wiggle their way in. Apparently, even the local wildlife knew to maintain a safe distance. “Horned lizards squirt blood if they're threatened.”

“Yeah, I thought I _killed it_ ,” Keith recounts, further illustrating his point by tossing around his free hand, “Scared me shitless. There was so much blood…”

Takashi Shirogane remembers the blood. He never thought it possible for there to be that much, all at once, and all from one person. He remembers the way it felt. He remembers how more kept draining out. He wonders how anyone could ever touch his hands again, after that.

Certainly not Keith, whose gloved hand rests against the window separating them. He had gone on talking about how good the wind had felt on his face on the drive over, how the long winding roads eased him and granted him time to free his head. If the road didn't end, he could ride it forever.

“I miss you,” Keith murmurs, head slightly bowed, arm resting weakly against the glass. It's what brings Shiro back before the smell of wet blood becomes entirely too keen.

His hand meets Keith's halfway, resting on the glass shamelessly despite the growing contempt of the nearby guards. They both remain like that, unmoving, as if carved that way from stone. Keith's eyes keep him there, entranced, and Shiro decides if he could carry out his sentence just like this, he’d be a free man in no time. A guard informs him his time is almost up, and with a great reluctance, manages to remove himself from the blackhole Keith has created. He had wanted to be sucked in; he wanted to implode.

“I miss you, too.”

This is what intimacy looks like now.

This is what intimacy looks like for the next 28 years.

 

.

 

As dinner rolls around, the corner table that had been watching his every move earlier in the day seemed to double, out populating the number of chairs originally designating the space.

It had become increasingly apparent to Shiro, that, probably in just a matter of hours, he was going to be jumped.

Keith's fears hadn't been completely unfounded, after all.

He could pack a mean punch, that much he was sure of, but he wasn't _that_ good. He wondered if anyone was capable of taking down 14 or so guys, undoubtedly all armed with makeshift weapons (which screamed overkill, frankly). There was power in numbers, Shiro was quickly learning. The way groups would stick together, for power, for protection, rattled him with a particular paranoia. It was all war over territory and appearances, and Shiro had inadvertently picked a fight with some white power gang by standing his ground in the courtyard the other day.

After being served his questionable dinner (just by the texture and smell alone, he deemed the mashed potatoes inedible) he found his usual table, typically occupied by a small number of unaffiliated inmates, to be swamped with a number of venom-eyed gang members. His tablemates peered over to him, teeming with discomfort at the gang's presence. Their stares spoke a voiceless demand: _'Leave us out of your shit’._

He makes a B line from the table, and upon a quick scan of the cafeteria, realizes there is no refuge to be found. The room seems deliriously over packed, an endless catalog of unfamiliar faces, and the dawn of what is happening begins to illustrate itself. A table of Hispanic prisoners bare their gazes into him, and their somber expressions lead Shiro to believe they've already caught wind of what was is about to go down. Did everyone already know? Had they all known as early as this morning?

Nobody likes a snitch.

There was no where to go. They were going to flush him out. He was going to leave the cafeteria, be followed, and then beaten to a bloody pulp. There wasn't much else to it. He would try to fight back of course, but he would be overpowered in seconds. Shiro had been beaten before, he knew when it was time to quit.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _it's better for everyone this way._

He doesn’t notice the table next to him speaking in hushed tones. Just as Shiro is about to trash his lunch, a voice rises above the clamor.

“Hey, Jackie Chan, come here for a sec.”

Shiro hesitates. He would look over his shoulder, but who else could they be referring to? The man, the one who called out to him, gives a simple nod of his head. His surrounding table mates give looks of watered down welcomes, and Shiro's body drifts toward them on autopilot.

Shiro says nothing as he approaches. He notices the hum of the cafeteria seems to go from a violent insectile buzzing in his ears, to a low radio static. He didn’t realize how damp his palms were with sweat. It was only after his panic attacks had settled down that he could give them an identity.   

“What's your name?” The man twirls something beneath his fingers, and somehow it reminds Shiro of Keith when he does his knife tricks.

“Shirogane,” He's already long accustomed to introducing himself by surname.

“Japanese,” is all the man says, looking away from Shiro to address the table, as to announce the outcome of an apparent dispute. A few men groan and slide over small items from commissary: allergy pills, dental floss, playing cards, tweezers… The man gathers his collection, briefly inspecting each item with satisfaction until he reaches the small metal prongs. He makes a face from across the table, at a stocky man with thick eyebrows and slight underbite - the original owner of the tweezers. “Prorok,” the annoyance is abundant, “What do you expect me to do with these?”

“Give ‘em back if you don't want ‘em,” Prorok tries, obviously hung up over the loss.

“No,” the man decides. He plucks the tweezers from the table and jabs them into Shiro's deflated mashed potatoes like it’s the finishing touch of a sandcastle. A noise of personal offense and disbelief escapes from Prorok’s throat.

“Thace,” the man offers and it takes Shiro a few moments to even register it as a name.

Thace appears to be in his late 30’s, possible 40’s, judging by the fine wrinkles along his forehead. He wears a goatee and has a head of thick dark, dark hair. Sideburns frame his face. His cheekbones are fairly prominent, eyes serious and slightly sunken. He is undeniably muscular, the broadness of his chest easily exceeding Shiro's, his arms defined, which lack tattoos unlike many of his table mates.

Under different circumstances, Shiro might even find him attractive.

“Where did you learn to fight?” Thace asks suddenly.

“Vietnam,” Shiro answers quickly. It tastes like iron in his mouth.

“Must have been young,” Thace comments, taking note of Shiro's youthful appearance.

“I was 18,” Shiro remembers, “Drafted.”

It was a foolish move, sharing personal information, but Shiro realizes the conversation is buying him time. He can feel the thickening tension in the room, how each individual death glare leaves a trickle of anxiety running down his spine.

He notices two particularly terrifying looking men seated by the center of the table. He's positive he's seen neither before, not even in passing, because their appearances are hardly forgettable. The largest man, impossibly old, though age indecipherable, is marked with a devastating scar, dragging down from a clouded eye and past his mouth. His skin seems to flake in areas of his body, revealing scaley, almost dinosaur-like flesh. His intertwined hands rest on the table, and he appears to be in deep thought as he viciously bares his eyes into Shiro.

In that moment, Shiro decides he possibly recognizes the man after all, somewhere dark and far away in a nightmare he’s spent his whole life trying to forget.

The man seated close by The Nightmare’s right is bulking in form, and the prideful manner in which he holds himself is reminiscent of the way Shiro's commanders had in the armed forces. The entirety of the man's left arm seems to be missing, but his sleeve is tied in a loose knot to preserve some ambiguity. Shiro wants to assume _veteran_ , but it’s more of a wishful thinking on his part, some obscure validation. His muscle memory twitches with the trained need to salute the other man. Shiro recalls the first week of his tour overseas, and how he had failed to salute his commanding general properly, resulting in an extensive lecture. He remembers every insult the General tore him through with, and how he had been hit particularly hard with a few racial slurs.

“You fought for their country,” Thace says suddenly, nearly reading Shiro's mind, “But that didn't matter to them. They hated you.”

Shiro still has a hard time forgetting about how singled-out he had been. He was born in America, his parents immigrants, but his fellow soldiers reminded him on a daily basis just how much he was despised for being different. It was simple prejudice, the way they purposefully butchered his name for the sake of belittling him. He remembered a time in middle school, when he’d approached his mom with the request of changing his first name. Perhaps something more American sounding would convince his classmates he was like them, and maybe the bullying would even subside. The taunts and constant alienation were torturous.

His mother had grasped his right shoulder firmly and spoke in her native tongue, in a tone he couldn't quite place at the time.

‘ _I knew from the moment I saw you that you were going to be a fighter, and that is why your father and I named you ‘Takashi’.’_

As a child, he could not decipher why this had overwhelmed her. It was the first time he ever saw his mother cry.

‘ _Don’t ever let them change that.’_

The second time he saw her cry was at his sentencing. With a smack of a hammer, he was proclaimed guilty of one charge of 2nd degree murder, and a smaller charge for withholding information from police. 28 years, with a possibility of parole after 10 years served, was deemed a merciful sentence. If he kept a flawless record, he was told they might even knock off 3 years. It was the _possibility of parole_ coupled with _Keith_ , that helped him sleep at night.

His mother, vainly reaching for him across the courtroom, leaned her body against his father’s like a dying woman as she helplessly gasped on her sobs. It was a sight that would haunt Shiro to his grave. As officers escorted him away, he was pressed for time and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It didn’t have to be something eloquent, just a final wish or word to ease his mom's suffering would do.

 _I love you_ , is what he should have said.

Why had he hesitated?

“They still hate me,” Shiro says with finality, but there isn’t any bitterness behind the statement.

A thinned-faced man beside Thace speaks up, tirelessly shifting food around his tray with a plastic utensil, “Those _gringos_ hate everyone who doesn't look like them. Even if you were mixed, they’d still hate you.”

“And they hate you even more now that you beat down one of their boys,” Thace adds to the injury. “Not looking too good for you, Shirogane.”

As if on cue, the man with the missing arm clears his throat, and the whole table snaps to attention. He gives the slightest nod towards the elderly man beside him, who’s finally removed his relentless stare from Shiro’s face. The old man shifts as he unfolds his fingers, then flicks a look to the group. He seems to have made up his mind about something, and the table falls into an immediate, grim understanding. The faint friendless of the table vanishes completely to reveal its pseudo nature, and the dozen or so eyes that had watched him in interest now refuse to look his way. He feels like a starving animal as the group return to their meals.  

One of the men says something in Spanish, and at that, Shiro realizes he is an outsider on someone else's property.

Thace slips out of Spanish mid-sentence, making a small comment about how disgusting the mashed potatoes are. The subtlety isn’t lost on Shiro, who swiftly snatches the tweezers from the tray before discarding his food. He stashes the new found weapon in his sock.  

He leaves the cafeteria.

Shiro figures his cell may be the safest place for him until they are all locked in for the night. That was still several hours away, though. He considers going back to the cafeteria, and grows frustrated at himself for taking the bait so easily by fleeing. Shiro turns another corner, expecting a group of shiv-wielding men to strike at a moment's notice. He gradually picks up his pace until a disgruntled guard stationed at the end of a corridor barks out a warning, ‘ _No running_ ’. He keeps his head down as he passes the officer, worried the panic on his face may warrant questions. His cell is close, but the phones are closer, and he remembers Keith’s plea earlier in the day. Keith wouldn’t have the power to do anything to protect him, but at least he’d know. Ignorance was not bliss, _not knowing_ was the most gut-wrenching feeling in the universe. If he disappeared for a few days, then it wouldn’t have been without warning. If he was killed, he could at least tell Keith he was sorry.

He makes his way up a staircase as quickly as possible, recognizing it as prime territory for a jump. He climbs the staircase, and he has a memory of being barracked in a burning building, and how he was forced to limp up stairs, all while guiding (practically dragging) an injured soldier. They had to flee by jumping out a 3rd story window, and his teammates argued among the smoke, convinced they had to abandon the injured man. He was more of a boy though, just 19, and a bullet had hit a major artery in his thigh. It had almost been Shiro, but the boy had diverted the attention of enemy fire, and made himself a target. The group almost left the boy to bleed out then and there, but responsibility perched itself onto Shiro’s shoulders.

As the team filed out the window, finding safety by jumping to an adjacent rooftop, the boy had put down all his weight in resistance, jerking Shiro back and effectively grabbing his attention. ‘ _You have to leave me here.’_

Shiro had refused. There had to be another way, there always was.

The boy had thanked him, his weak voice almost lost among the rumbling of the building, and resigned himself to a place on the floor, eyes devoid of fear. Shiro had knelt in front of him, forehead pressed to the other’s in silent apology, before ripping free and pocketing one of his tags.

He barely made the jump across the building, gravity weighed down his gear, and on sheer adrenaline, clawed his way up the ledge he’d caught on the edge of his fingertips. He rolled onto his side, winded, and was met with the indifferent looks of his group. No had tried to help him up.

And he was angry, so angry, not because they didn’t give a damn for him, but rather by the gross display of a team completely divided in their efforts. If they had all worked together, the situation wouldn’t have become as precarious as it had. They wouldn’t have been so helpless. They could have saved a life.

It was as if they weren’t even fighting the same war.

He couldn’t remember the boy’s name, and for that, he felt an immense guilt. He had a hard time remembering a lot of things he’d seen and done while at war. It was only at night, when sleep was made impossible, that a fleet of memories came at him in full force, and left him clawing at his skull. He’d come to once, drenched in a cold sweat, and seeking shelter underneath the kitchen table. He was startled to find Keith by his side and at the edge of tears.

“What was I saying?” Shiro had asked, nose brushing the side of Keith’s neck. They were on the couch, blanket encasing them like a cocoon, in an attempt to relax after Shiro’s episode.

“Nothing,” was Keith’s terse dismissal.

“You were crying,” Shiro reminded him gently. He didn’t want to push the topic unnecessarily, but he worried about what nightmare he may have re-enacted in Keith’s presence.

“I was just worried,” he said in a voice that declared no emotion.

_If I don’t worry about you, no one else will._

Sometimes, he thinks about how unfair it all is to Keith. Shiro is seven years his senior, and the amount of baggage he brought to the table was a lot for someone so young. People were fine fucking Shiro for his looks, but there was a clear emotional distance if he ever dared to divulge his past. Keith had been the only one to look into his eyes without judgment.

Shiro stands in front of a telephone, braced and ready to dial. His body must have gone on autopilot. He suspects he’s been frozen in front of the phone for several minutes now.

He dials Keith’s number, and a monotone voice reminds him, as always, that his call will be monitored. The phone takes a few seconds to connect, then begins ringing.

A noise echoes from the hallway, and grows louder to become what Shiro recognizes as a distinct collection of footsteps. His head snaps to the right of him, hands starting to shake. He waits like a startled animal for the predator that is bound to reveal itself.

Six men appear from around the corner, moving at a terrifyingly brisk pace. He sees the bloodthirst in their eyes; their intentions are as clear as day.   

“Shiro?” comes Keith’s voice suddenly, breathless, as if he’d darted for the phone.

Shiro hesitates.

“Shiro, are you there?” Keith tries again, with mild concern.

He’s running out of time. He recognizes the irony.

“I love you.”

It's all he says before hanging up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in 3 or 4 years, and this is my first time publishing anything. I'm not sure how I feel about that.


	2. Bite Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing this as a catharsis & I am a very troubled man it would seem.

“It’s sad, you know? You don’t even know how fucked up you are and it’s sad. I feel sorry for you, I really do. I feel sorry because you are a disgrace, a fucking disgrace, and here you are wasting my time on this.”

It had been hour 7 of the interrogation, and Shiro watched shapes and colors bounce behind his eyelids as they threatened to stay closed forever. He’d been promised he could sleep and that everything would be fine, all he had to do was cooperate. They would take care of him - _they promised this_ \- and that he would be pitied for his wartime trauma, that no jury or judge could possibly condemn him for it. It wasn’t his fault for killing, none of it was, he had become a murderer all by mistake.

It had become a cycle, a formula almost, Shiro had realized. Good cop, Bad cop. Blaming, Understanding. Threats, Comfort. It was like being told you had a mild cough, but then a simple misdiagnosis and, surprise, it’s cancer.

“You’re sick, that’s what it is. There’s something in your brain that’s broken. You told me that, remember? Do you remember telling me that?” The officer had leaned back in his chair, fingers rhythmically thrumming against a case file, as he sought to present a casual demeanor. Shiro had been reluctant to answer in many points of the interrogation. Nothing he said was quite what the officer had wanted to hear, and his body was teetering with the urge to flinch at anything and everything. Shiro was sensitive to sudden changes and easy to startle, a slamming door could render him immobile for minutes, forced to fight off an ambush beneath his skin. He recalled a time Keith had accidentally flung a coffee mug off the kitchen counter, and on impact with the floor, its shattered bones rang out like a gunshot. It had taken a lot of convincing to assure Shiro he wasn’t in any danger.

The officer seemed to be aware of just how dissociative Shiro could become under extended stress, and it was a twisted playing card in an even more twisted game. A table had been kicked, a chair thrown, and he’d been spat on at least twice.

Obviously, they were just eager to help. They were Shiro’s friends.

They were doing him a _favor._

“I said, do you remember telling me that?”

“I’m not sure,” Shiro breathed out through chattering teeth. Sweated matted down the back of his shirt, yet he was freezing, like someone had left a window open overnight in the late fall. Except, there were no windows in the room, just wall, wall, wall, and wall.

“You’re not sure?” The officer’s voice was thick with scrutiny. “Or you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember,” Shiro echoed.

“You don't remember a lot of things. Your mind blocks out the things you want to forget. I asked you if you remembered killing people in Vietnam, and do you know what you said, Takashi?” Shiro flinched at the use of his name, the feigned friendliness a practiced insult. His pause for thought highlighted the impatience of the officer's face. All the questions and accusations had blurred together like an abstract painting, and he could no longer distinguish the authenticity in anything he had or had not said. He wasn’t sure _what_ the truth was anymore.

“I don’t kno-”

The surface of the table erupted in tremors with the sudden fall of a fist. A hard, shaky breath escaped from Shiro as he struggled to maintain whatever was left of his composure. The lights, the sounds, the foreboding atmosphere, it had all been too much. He was breaking.

The officer had leaned in then, vibrating with malice. “Cut the shit! This is what it’s going to be. You are a mentally deranged veteran, a danger to yourself and those around you. You had an episode and so you killed a man. You plead insanity to keep yourself out of big boy prison, and then you won’t hurt anyone again.” His speech is incredibly decisive. He makes it all sound so simple.

“ _Or_ ,” he wasn’t finished, “you were completely aware of what you were doing. You meant to kill him. You like killing people and your sob story is just a guise. They put you in State and then you’ll be raped or stabbed for being a faggot.”

Shiro flinched at the slur. He’d almost lost it earlier when the officer had tried to build a narrative where his “fag friend” (see: Keith) ratted him out. Shiro saw white for a split second, so invested in his anger, and had made a rash and poor decision to bark back at the officer. It had earned him a lengthy, verbal attack, a lecture on how homosexuality bred violence. It had been toward the beginning of the interrogation, when Shiro still had enough fire within himself to mentally roll his eyes. He had a hard time tossing aside the insult now, though.

In a world of endless possibilities, were these really his only two options?

“So, what’s it gonna be?”

It was just another question Shiro didn’t have the answer to.

 

.

 

He can't recall in exactly what order it had happened, but he now realizes, with increasing absurdity, how the devil truly is in the details.

Both of Shiro's hands are preoccupied with battling off the harsh leather of a belt, as it threatens to asphyxiate him. The back of his head is crushed against a man's lower abdominal, and his attacker’s face is bent over Shiro's crown, taunting him in hushed tones.

“Don't you dare pass out. You pass out and we'll fuck your ass so good you'll wish you were awake for it.”

The aimless thrashing of Shiro's legs becomes more defensive as another man reaches to yank off his shoes. He almost kicks the guy square in the jaw before two other men bounce on either leg to subdue him. Both of Shiro's hands remain trapped under the belt, rendering them useless in his fight, but being the only thing between him and passing out. A guttural sound escapes him as he tries wringing himself free from the hold of the three much larger men.

“Open your fucking mouth,” is the sharp command of the man now hovering before him, whom he suspects to be at the forefront of the operation. He finishes tugging off both of Shiro's shoes, tossing each one onto Shiro's gut for disposal, before ripping free one of his socks. What Shiro expects to hear next is the light ping of metal against the floor followed by the immediate discovery of a hilariously minuscule weapon. His opposite sock remains untouched, and it's an unsung victory in an otherwise complete shit show. He recognizes dumb luck when it sees it.

“I said open your fucking mouth, bitch!” The destination of the sock is made apparent, and one of the men weighing down Shiro's legs abruptly curls a fist before slamming it down onto his stomach. The shock and intensity of the strike has Shiro reeling and nearly choking on the excess saliva pooling inside his throat. The leader, the guy calling the shots, _whoever the fuck_ , balls up the cotton and buries it into Shiro's mouth, who can now hardly muster a plea with the additional obstruction.

Shiro's seeing spots, shapes like eraser shavings gathering on a desk. It reminds him how Keith probably has class tomorrow, how he's been studying for a particularly grueling test on astrophysics, and how Shiro's vague phone call will doubtlessly have him spacing out during lessons tomorrow. He suspects Keith will be hunched over the telephone for the rest of the night, praying for a call to signal some kind of assurance of Shiro's well-being.

“Don't ever skip class because of me,” Shiro had advised during his first week in the prison, an emotionally spent Keith floundering towns away behind the receiver. The younger man had missed two consecutive days at his college, too absorbed in mental peril to care about attending lectures on quantum theory.

“Don't let what's happening to me get in the way with _you_ ,” he tried with some authority, but the shallow breathing on the other end made him vulnerable. “It's just…” he swallowed, resolve quaking, “It's not worth it, Keith.”

_I’m not worth it._

It was sobering to think about how many hours, how much time spent in suffering, he was responsible for creating in just one person. It was a heavy burden, one made all the more bitter at how willing its recipient was. It reminded Shiro of how resilient the human spirit was, how men could intentionally set themselves on fire without ever crying out from inside the flames.

Keith Kogane was as martyr as he was anarchist.

Shiro actually lost consciousness for a minute. He re-emerges from the darkness with a view of the upper portion of his jumpsuit now gathered by his waist, and at cool air engulfing his now exposed torso. He lurches forward and is met with the resistance of cloth and metal holding him hostage. He tugs experimentally at the restraint (obviously his shirt attached to the shower nozzles) and his wrists burn, tender and aching, at how mercilessly it's been tied. He notices his gag has been removed; a small relief. There is a change of surroundings, the white painted hallway no longer the backdrop of his demise. Rather, a familiar dampness floods the air, and the lingerings of grime and sweat invades his nostrils.

He hates the communal showers. It was the grounds of a number of atrocities Shiro had bore witness to. Mostly, it was just shouts from the opposite end of the room that left his imagination to speculate the severity of an altercation. Other times, it was someone being assaulted just a few bodies away, but _every time_ , he found himself a bystander to the violence. He vividly recalls how someone had fallen against him, and he had nearly slipped as he reflexively caught the stumbling man. It was the first time he’d ever been touched in prison, and it was unsettling how relieving it felt. To have a body, equally as naked and defenseless finding a place against his own, was intoxicating. Shiro was about to wordlessly return the man to his feet, ready to dismiss the human contact as mere accident, just as hands began clawing his chest. The man thrashed in blind panic, seeking some kind of refuge, before sinking down Shiro’s abdominal, arms clutching his sides. The man rested his face into Shiro’s stomach, hunched over, revealing a series of stab wounds weeping in pink streams under the water’s current. “ _Help me_ ,” was the man’s hair raising mantra.

How easily the roles could have been reversed.

The sound of haughty laughter pricks Shiro’s ears, and he’s met with a view of his attackers, chests puffed out in satisfaction at their handy work. He counts five, assuming that one of them must be keeping lookout by the exits. The man standing in the center approaches Shiro with a sneer and darts forward to squeeze his throat, digging into the bruises that have already (undoubtedly) taken form. The man‘s head is shaved to the scalp, and tattoos litter his neck, fanning into the collar of his jumpsuit.  

“We’ll make this something you won’t forget,” Rancid breath snakes its way into Shiro’s mouth. Suddenly, there’s a palm at his crotch and the precariousness of the situation doubles, triples, completely fucking quantifies, unfolding itself like an intricate piece of origami, all wrinkles in its undoing. Shiro hates how his body slackens in momentary defeat, in understanding, that this is just a small, simple part of something predestined. He had been expecting this, he thought, it was bound to happen sooner or later. How unfortunate though, and how _soon_.

The tattooed man easily pulls down Shiro’s jumpsuit, and the heavy fabric gathers into a pile at his ankles. Another man, strikingly blond, gets in close to untangle the clothing. It’s torn away, and Shiro feels an immediate remorse at its removal, face burning with anger and shame. They finish their feverish stripping of him, and he’s hoisted up, a pair of calloused hands cradling him from behind. The tattooed man hooks Shiro’s fidgeting legs around his waist. He tries headbutting his assailant, but is easily dodged, and it earns him a hard shove against the shower wall, nozzles poking his lower back in more irritation than pain.  

“ _Don’t_.” For a moment, Shiro doesn’t recognize the voice to be his own. He means for it to come out as a warning, possibly a threat, but the fragility in the word is all plea.

“You did this to yourself,” the tatted man scorns, and there’s probably more truth in the statement than Shiro would care to admit. He did do this to himself. He was a product of his own destruction, both aggressor and victim to its aftermath. He deserved everything that followed in the wake.

He told himself he wouldn’t beg, that it was his only way of preserving some pride. He wouldn’t show weakness, he couldn’t let it become an option.

Then he thinks of Keith, about how he will have to explain this to him later. Shiro thinks about how devastated he will be, how it will only serve to illustrate a very gruesome picture. One where Keith, no matter how much he screams, will not be able to realign the universe into a kinder version of itself. A version where the vastness of the Nevada deserts invites peace, and they can travel as far into it as they want, completely unafraid. A version where they can kiss forever beneath a starlit sky. A version, and what a fleeting fantasy, they could even grow old in together.

“Anything but this, please,” he blurts out, gut wrenching humiliation burrowing itself deep inside him. He hates how the beg sounds, hates it so much, how his voice tightens in bargaining. “Whatever you want, it’s done. Just not this.”

The man grips the sides of Shiro’s face at that, forcing his jaw open with an anatognizingly hard press of his index finger and thumb. He shoots a wad of spit down Shiro’s throat, whom nearly gags on the taste alone.

“Next time, it’s my cum.” There’s a slap at his rear. The men surrounding them laugh and whistle in approval.

Shiro closes his eyes, willing himself to disassociate from the moment (something a therapist from long ago warned adamantly against) and prepares to ride out the next few minutes. He’s never been one to utilize good coping habits, anyway.  

This won't be the worst thing that's happened to him.

There’s a sound. Shiro mistakes it for something he’s made up, some noise from a dream or memory, until he notices unrest among the group of men. They fall into a deafening silence, eyeing one another with unease. Shiro doesn’t realize how hard he’s been shaking until everything else around him seems to just stop, frozen in motion. The man holding him removes a hand, leaving Shiro lopsided, and forcing him to clumsily buck for leverage, ankles locking together to keep from falling. A palm is placed carefully over Shiro’s mouth. The men remain motionless, until their apparent leader nudges for someone to go scouting. One of them turns to leave.

After about 30 seconds, the scout’s failure to reappear causes a murmur to bubble from the men. It is half panic and half agitation. Shiro jolts at the sound of heavy footsteps, and there is a terrifying confidence in the stride, one that definitely rules out the possibility of it being a guard.

One of the men, furthest from Shiro, is greeted with a fist to the face, and there’s a noise of teeth cracking against concrete. In that split second, all Shiro can feel is a surge of adrenaline coursing down his spine. He knows what an advantage looks like; it is the only thing that’s kept him alive for so long. Shiro knocks his forehead, in one swift movement, against the side of his assailant’s skull, a dangerous part of him reveling in the surprised yelp that follows, and bites savagely into the man’s neck. The tattooed man completely drops his hold on Shiro, whom brings his knee up to land a few blunt blows into the guy’s gut. The man gasps, desperate for oxygen, as he claws his fingers into Shiro’s scalp and yanks, yanks, yanks, the fringe of his black hair. Shiro winces, sees white, stark whiteness, like the explosion of a star, but refuses to let up on the flesh he’s caught between his teeth. He bites so hard, sure his jaw will snap, until he’s finally rewarded with the taste of fresh blood. The taste of iron is nostalgic and Shiro feels his body go limp, entirely drunk with gratification. The buzz is warm and comforting as it spreads throughout his head and into the tips of his ears, and he wants is to stay like that forever, but as the man’s cries become longer and wetter, he recedes. The man, so far away in his own pain, grabs desperately at his gushing neck, and Shiro kicks him with both legs. The man stumbles, left to writhe on the ground, and Shiro decides he’s incapacitated enough to no longer be considered a threat.

Shiro’s eyes lock onto the next moving thing he can find, muscles thrumming with wild energy, riding off a brazen high. He eagerly meets a fearful set of eyes, and Shiro’s feels himself tugging, _clawing_ through the fabric restraining his wrists. He twists and turns, a sharp creak of the nozzle the only explanation for the sudden stream of water coating his body. There is diluted blood running down his thighs, left to gather at his feet, and it's goddamn invigorating. The blond haired man before Shiro manages to pull out of a stupor, and prepares to pounce. In perfect unison, Shiro slips a hand free from the restraint in time to catch his opponent’s flying fist. The response is automatic; Shiro twists the hand back, a gross pop emitting from the wrist, and the man roars. Shiro successfully releases his other hand, and the relief of freedom is instantaneous and so, so sweet. The man returns, thoroughly pissed, and moves to swing at Shiro despite the visible twitching in his injured arm. He is blocked effortlessly, momentum used against him, and hurdles into the opposing shower wall. Shiro is on him in a second, and grabs a fistful of the guy’s light hair. He whacks the man’s face into the wall, one, two (there’s a crunch), three times, then throws him down onto the slick shower floor, nearly landing on top the boss man. Shiro grips the blond’s bony ankles, fingernails digging into the skin, and begins dragging him toward the center of the room. He realizes a number of unconscious bodies littering the floor, five others to be exact, although he’s sure he can only claim responsibility for one. He can’t begin to care how they got there.

Shiro tosses the man’s legs down, plopping him onto the floor. He climbs above him, clutching either shoulder, face hovering only inches from the gang member’s face, who is clearly fighting unconsciousness. Shiro doesn’t care.

“You thought you could fuck with me?” he growls, tone dangerous, lingering like an infection.  

Apologies and explanations begin pouring from the man’s lips like a flooded bathroom. Shiro grabs the man’s face with lightening speed, clawing the flesh there, before asking again, meticulous.

“ _Shh_ , no, I asked you a question.” His voice dripping with a terrifying sweetness, almost patronizing in its execution. “I asked you if you thought you could fuck with me.”

The man tenses, eyes glazing over in an emotion Shiro knows very well, is thoroughly acquainted with, has fucked with in the dark numerous times, as a matter of fact.

“Yes,” the man answers in a trembling voice, deciding honesty is best policy.

Shiro chuckles at that. The humor in him dies quickly. “Why?”

“Because, because- Fuck, I don't know, man,” he struggles, body stirring in his nervousness, “We didn't even notice you before you got into it with one of our guys. We thought…” he trails off and Shiro lazily quirks an eyebrow.

_Try me._

“We thought you were an easy target and…”

“And you thought you could make me your _prison bitch?_ ” Shiro offers, eyes twitching with a hostility that betrays the casual smile pulling at his lips.

The man’s face blanches at that. He begins stumbling over his words, trying to rework his story, evicting himself from involvement, throwing around names that mean absolutely nothing to Shiro. It all falls on deaf ears. Shiro raises a hand, and the man clams up.

“I’ve heard enough,” Shiro decides, reaching down for the wet elastic of his sock. It was comical almost, how they had stripped down every other part of him. He finds the tweezers resting against his foot, and has to pluck them out of the imprint they’ve left on his skin. He reveals the tool to the man, whose mouth twitches in confusion, then sudden understanding as Shiro draws it closer to his face.   

“You’re fucking crazy,” the man breathes out in resounding realization.

Shiro clicks his tongue.

“You were under the impression I wasn’t?”

 

.

 

He can remember a time, leaning against his mailbox, simply watching for some cosmic sign to instruct him to peer inside. He had been waiting for something, _something important_ , but decided it hardly mattered anymore. How could anything matter when the sky was so expansive? It could swallow him so effortlessly in its dominance, he thought. Smoke curls from behind his lips, losing its shape entirely as it drifts.

“I wish you would quit smoking,” the voice is gentle, almost otherworldly, and gingerly reaches for the cigarette, easily plucking it from his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, but there is no sincerity. It’s a kind lie, seeping out like euthanasia. It comes from the detached part of him; the destructive part, the apathetic part. _I’ll just do it again_ , it whispers.

“I wish you hadn’t killed me,” and it’s kind, brimming with endearment, and, so, _so_ in love, that the horror of the words are completely lost. Shiro knows the voice, yet can’t place its owner. His heart feels heavy, weighing itself down into his stomach. The remorse is almost tangible

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says.

 

.

 

There’s a hand at his wrist, and somehow, it coaxes Shiro into dropping his weapon.

He’s hoisted up, his feet shakily finding their place on the ground, before being handed a fistful of dampened fabric he recognizes as his jumpsuit. He is wordlessly guided into his clothing, like a child numb from sleep, and braces himself onto something warm and obviously human as he dresses. He fumbles with getting a leg through his trousers, and knocks against a hard chest, practically bobbing with exhaustion. His limbs feel impossibly loose, and he struggles to control his own movements, tainted with lethargy. He wonders if he’s been drugged.

He’s sloppily scooped up and his back shivers, covered with goosebumps, as he is perched against a frigid wall. It’s to keep him from falling, he realizes, as he’s finally able to slide a leg into his jumpsuit.  

He finally thinks to examine this phantom, this mysterious figure, and upon further inspection of the room, his goddamn _savior_ , apparently.

There’s an incessant ringing in his ears, a blurriness that invades his vision, as he stares up at the man with the missing arm.

His knight in shining armor.

“I wasn’t here,” he says and Shiro nods. He one-handedly fiddles with the surviving buttons on the uniform before Shiro reaches to help, clumsily brushing their fingers together.

“You weren’t here,” Shiro swallows as the man’s fist engulfs his own. He squeezes, and it's something Shiro wishes he could mistake as reassurance. He fears it isn’t something as kind.

The man leans in close, and the back of Shiro’s neck tingles. He exhales into Shiro’s ear and the sensation surges through him in such a desperate manner, it makes his face hot.

“You owe me.”

The man lingers there, body heavy and trapping Shiro against the wall in unspoken tension. Between the dried blood on his lips and how warm the man feels against his shivering flesh, he wants to pay his due right now. He is so utterly spent, and he wants to revel in the sensation for as long as possible. He wants to be torn limb from limb. He wants to surrender.

He’s so accustomed to drowning, he hardly remembers the surface. There’s a comfort in letting go, he thinks, but he remembers that somewhere, there’s someone who loves him very much, and is waiting for him to call. He decides he loves them, too, and that he will.

With a sudden shift of his body, the man is on his way. There’s an expectancy in his gaze, _come find me_ , it seems to say. And with that, he is gone.

Shiro doesn’t even know his name.

 

.

 

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” It is an unadulterated excitement, something that has become so rare in Keith, that a bittersweet smile tugs at Shiro’s lips. He can hear the sounds of Keith rummaging through cabinets, and there’s a clank of a pan somewhere far off, that Shiro can only assume originates from the kitchen.

“You got me a puppy?” The older man teases, the friendliness in his tone equally as foreign. He absently leans against the wall, telephone in hand, stance open and uncaring to eavesdroppers. He remembers his first week or so, how he would hunch over the phone in a vain attempt at retaining privacy. It quickly dawned on him how nobody actually cared though, _especially_ not any of the men neighboring his side. Everyone was absorbed in their own space, speaking easily and confidently to their loved ones. It assured him that his bubble would not be invaded. His world was safe.

“No,” Keith says, deadly serious. There’s a pause, followed by a snort, then a startled laugh. “Shut up,” he playfully chides.

“You’re so cute,” Shiro says with a rumbling chest. “You’re so clueless.”

“I'm at the top of my class,” Keith reminds, now flipping through papers. He groans in annoyance, slapping a pile of parchment onto the floor. “Where the _hell?_ ”

“What are you looking for?” Shiro asks halfheartedly. He’s much more interested in the thought of Keith, wonders what he is wearing, if he put his hair up today, if he finally bought a new pair of biker gloves or is persistent in wearing his current ones to death.

“Uh, some paper this lady gave me. It has all her information on it _I know I didn't lose it_ ,” Keith kicks up the papers, the sole of his shoe screeching against the wood flooring as he nearly slips.

“ _Woah,_ woah slow down,” Shiro tries, raising a defensive hand, as if the body language will be known, “What lady?”

“Uh, you know…” Keith’s voice falters a bit, as if caught with something he shouldn’t have. “Some lady,” he dismisses.

“Keith,” Shiro drones in light warning.

“ _Oh.”_ There is a noise, an unfolding of paper. “I left it in my pocket.”

Shiro waits. Keith clears his throat

“Listen, I- and please just hear me out,” it is a solemn request. Shiro doesn’t have to be in front of Keith to know he’s running an unsure hand through his bangs. “But I think I found you a lawyer.”

Shiro almost laughs despite himself.

“Keith,” he deadpans, “I’m already in prison.”

Shiro recalls his public defender, and what a piece of shit he’d truly been. Fumbling with documents, completely inadequate in presentation, Shiro mourns not having the kind of money for a good lawyer. Though, he wouldn’t have needed a _good_ lawyer, just a decent one, or just literally anyone else. His defender had declared there was simply too much condemning evidence, and that Shiro would have to plead guilty. His only other option, and certainly in his best interest, was to plead not guilty by reason of insanity.

Were these really his only two options?

“She specializes in wrongful convictions,” Keith confesses, like he’s been anticipating this part of the conversation, “Shiro, she’s responsible for exonerating two people. One of them was on _death row_. Can you believe that shit?”

If it had been a casual discussion over coffee and a newspaper, Shiro might have been able to find himself in shock at the implication. Raw proof of a broken justice system. However, just this morning, an inmate had gone around offering a candy bar in exchange for a blowjob. Shiro now decides that most things about prison are unsurprising.

“Crazy,” he confirms, but the word tastes strange on his tongue.

“I talked to her last night about your case and she seemed, I don’t know, genuinely interested in helping. She wants to meet you.”

“I’m sure she does,” Shiro says too quickly, reaching to rub his temples. “So let me ask you this,” he tries to keep his tone easy, but here’s an irritation worming its way inside of him, unrecognizable in its longevity, “how am I paying for it?”

“I’m paying for it,” is Keith’s unwavering response.

“ _You’re_ paying for it?” He repeats it, like the punchline of a well-executed joke, except Keith doesn’t make jokes. There is a silence that follows. He momentarily tunes into a one-sided discussion beside him, about a poor outcome of a parole hearing, about how it just didn’t work out this time. Somewhere, far away, a woman shrieks miserably.

“Keith, that money I left behind, that’s all for you,” he speaks roughly, like he’s been threatened, “It’s for the apartment. It’s for you to stay in school. It’s for you to _live_.”

The stunned silence on the other end of the phone is voluminous. He knows Keith will take it the wrong way. He knows how much he hates being lectured, despises being told what to do. Shiro goes on anyway.

“Babe, we both know that money isn’t going to last long as it is.” It’s an attempt at reasoning. It's something that worries Shiro, when the money runs out, and how it'll tear the rug out from under Keith.

Bills and debts didn't just go away once you did.

“You helped _me_ when no one else could be goddamn bothered,” Keith starts, and he must be shaking, “So why can't I do the same for you?”

 _Because I refuse to take you down with me,_ is what he absolutely will not say. He can't seem to muster up anything that won't hurt Keith though, so he escapes in the silence.

“Shiro,” he says, burning in the flame he's ignited, "just let me do this for you.”

He brings a hand to his neck, grazes along the green and yellow bruises, their dull sting a sobering reminder. _Next time_ , they promise.

“What’s her name?” Shiro asks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Anorkie for sitting down with me. She's a strong writer and helped edit a lot of the little flubs I made. If you're interested in gang/crime related stuff, please read her fic The Good Guys: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8498446/chapters/19475152


	3. no me gusta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey. Yeah, this is still a thing.  
> Shout to Cole who is a HUGE enabler, but also my main inspiration for even finishing this 9,800 words of a chapter.  
> Also, the chapters have names now.  
> Also, I made a Pinterest for this. Inspired by good ol' crime, shame, and homosexuality. You know... a e s t h e t i c s.  
> https://www.pinterest.com/bastardbones/the-monster-has-a-name/

“We have go for main engine start - _eight, seven, six_ \- we have main engine start - _three, two, one_ \- solid motor ignition and liftoff. Lift off of Columbia and-”

The calm of Hugh Harris’ voice evaporates like a flash flood in the desert, the mesmerizing view of Columbia against a lackluster sky completely washes away with a harsh static, a moment in history side eyed as someone changes the channel.

Shiro slaps down his cards without meaning to, the only one having been captivated by the television, the only one in the vicinity intrigued by the current advancements in space research and exploration it would appear, and apparently, the only nerd among them.

Prison sure is lonely.

“Are you folding?” Shiro’s cellmate, the chronic masturbator, shyly manages.

“What?” He forgets they’re playing poker, having zoned out only minutes into the activity. They agreed to not place any bets, and forgoing the stakes had certainly amplified the meaningless nature of the game. He had watched from a distance how enthralled inmates had become over blackjack and chess, settling scores and getting even. Shiro, however, just sought to ease away the listlessness of the day. As soon as the anxiety of daily interactions dissipated and the quieter moments rolled around, prison was…painfully boring. Torturous even. Assumedly, this must just be another part of the punishment. No wonder his cellie jerks it at least twice a day.

“Forget it,” Shiro sighs, squinting at the patterned backs of his cards through the dimness of the room. It’s been almost a month of him internally pleading with the light bulb. He’s been waiting for it to go, to die in an honor-less malfunction of circuitry so maintenance can hobble over with a replacement. Fleetingly, he considers chucking his shoe at it, anything to rid him of its pathetic glow, but thinks better of it. The culprit from earlier bangs the side of the television to remedy the grainy picture but to no avail. A collection of anguished shouts make their home inside Shiro’s skull as the screen loses signal completely. He grits his teeth, exhales through his nose.

“You win,” Shiro announces as he stands from his chair. He slides it towards the table out of habit, but as the wood skims the floor, he wonders if such manners are superficial.

His cellmate peers up from his deck, with a kind of disappointment that suggests he’d possibly been enjoying the game, or at the very least, found relief in being preoccupied. He was a young guy, Shiro noted, and was doing time for a fairly unremarkable fraud charge. _‘I signed a check that wasn’t mine,’_ he absently confessed one night when they had both been plagued by unrest, _‘I tried cashing it. Stupid. It was stupid.’_

He was facing 3 years for it. He and Shiro were processed around the same time, fresh blood to the system, and naturally, being the new guys together, sharing a bunk, sharing a _toilet,_ there was a sort of solace in the company they shared. They didn’t speak often, they weren’t friends, but they did respect one another. His cellmate had jumped down from his bunk this morning, muttering a dismal, “ _35 months”_ and it was a hot second before Shiro had understood the meaning of it.

Shiro had done his own math. The number was infinitely more devastating.

His 30 days of processing were up ( _one_ _whole month in prison_ ) and he suspects he'll be flung to a cell block with inmates baring crimes more or less heinous as his own. The processing block, the Tank, was an accumulation of colorful individuals, from low level thugs to high tier convicts, and Shiro couldn't find the sense in housing murders with people who forged 50 dollar bills. He worries who he may be paired with, as he's already grown accustomed to his current cellmate. He wonders if the two of them will even acknowledge each other once they're separated. He has doubts.

The end of his processing period is the heavy smack of a gavel against reality. Very soon he'll be assigned a menial job, have a permanent bed, and then be spending every hour as an honest to God criminal. This was his life now. This was real.

The only saving grace was the visitations. The previous restrictions had been lifted and his write up had been served. He was granted the privilege of contact visits, which meant could see Keith, and not from behind a barrier, not behind glass like some unattainable treasure, he could actually _see_ Keith.

He could see Keith _today._

In a matter of hours, as was the case.

The clock, hanging lopsidedly against the wall, now seems more menacing than ever. The garbled chatter on the television, newly revived, scrapes its way inside his ears. Everything was either entirely too noisy, reminiscent of an unmonitored classroom, or too quiet, like the silence of a vacated building. There never seemed to be a middle ground, a gray area, and it was a neutrality he begged to escape to. It was all black or white, white or black, and Shiro was constantly being shoved between them. The silence was terrifying. The noise, overwhelming.

He mutters something passable enough as a goodbye then shuffles away from the recreation room. Soon enough, he is aimlessly pacing the hallway, destination being a common indecision. The cell block would be empty, he could kill time, sleep, stare at the ceiling from the cramped top bunk. It is certainly tempting, would resign the obligation to socialize, perhaps stifle some paranoia. However, the consequences loom over him, how his withdrawn demeanor will not go unreported, how he must be a model prisoner, one that interacts as an integrated part of the prison. He has to present himself as something a parole board could drool over.

He is well versed in self-sabotage, but despite the temptation, forces his legs to move outside, out to the yard, and it is surprisingly under crowded, long spaces between where men gather in reserved circles, so at least he can have room.his cell, he would hardly be able to stretch without grazing a wall, had awakened with a start just to whack his forehead against the concrete ceiling. His legs seem to appreciate the stretch, but wanders for only a minute or so, wary of the leers and suspicion he seems to be quickly accumulating. It would be effortless, to happenstance upon someone else’s territory, and it’s just another strike on a board he doesn’t care to mark; losing streak.

He sits on the pavement and hugs his knees to his chest like a friendless schoolboy condemned to recess. He brushes his fingers against the bumpy ground, gently scraping his flesh in a noncommittal motion, trying to forget himself in the rhythm. The dry Nevada air stings the inside of his nose, and the burn is nearly comforting in its consistency where nothing else is. He’s close to the fence, traces how the wire tangles and retraces itself with his eyes, how it meets at the top with large, prickly fangs, how easily it would rip the skin off bone. He imagines how rewarding, though, to emerge on the other side with bloody palms, only an open desert ahead. He muses at the possibilities.

A long shadow drifts toward him.

“Still kicking?” Shiro darts his head, the voice nearly startling him into a defensive stance, unable to discern the apparition’s status of friend or foe. The reeling in his head slows as he’s met with a familiar face, lax eyes framed by a set of dark brows. Thace pulls a cigarette from his mouth, lazily exhaling in gray tendrils as he offers a solemn expression; perhaps an apology.  

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says then, plainly taking note of the apprehension in Shiro’s muscles. The man casually taps away at the gathering ashes before nestling the cigarette back between his lips. He flicks something from under the hem of his sleeve, and the fluidity of the motion reminds Shiro of a magic trick as Thace reveals an unlit cigarette, raised in invitation.

“I quit smoking,” Shiro admits, mostly because it is the truth, but also in renewed suspicion of Thace’s charitable habits.

Thace shrugs at that, tucking away the cigarette as Shiro lifts himself up from the pavement in hopes of appearing less vulnerable. Thace steals a glance at the bruises coating Shiro's neck, but makes no comment on it, possibly to maintain neutrality or simply because he realizes it's none of his business. He returns an unreadable gaze to Shiro as he puffs smoke. Thace seems ready to end the impromptu interaction just as a hand claps his right shoulder in greeting.

“Hey, _ese,_ you got a light?” Prorok nibbles on a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as he lightheartedly shakes Thace. The leaner man casually tilts his face, moves in close to nudge his cigarette toward Prorok’s. There's a kind of intimacy in the moment as Prorok closes the distance between them, half lidded and lingering as the rolled paper crumbles in an orange glow, hand still squeezing Thace’s shoulder. It seems almost as ritualistic as it does sensual. Shiro has to wonder if it's his own sexual frustration making him squint for anything vaguely homoerotic, but as Prorok blows a light stream of smoke into Thace’s inviting mouth, it’s Shiro who nearly chokes.

“Hey, Dragon Master,” Prorok says with amusement, finally addressing Shiro's presence with a crooked grin. He whispers something into Thace’s ear, probably in Spanish, and Shiro is left to wonder why the extra precaution. Prorok gives two hard pats on the other man's shoulder before receding. He takes a drag. “Come smoke with us.”

“He doesn't smoke,” Thace remarks, tapping ash.

“Seriously?” Prorok jerks his head back at that. He squints at Shiro, look more inquisitive than anything. “Why not?”

 _Because my boyfriend hates it_ , is what he would humorously remark if he could afford to be so careless, so casual. Instead, he simply shrugs in dismissal.

He had picked up smoking in Vietnam, and before being deported, the appeal of suffocating on tobacco was entirely lost on him. In a war zone, however, it had been one of the few stress relieving activities. Most everything about it was revolting, from the smell, to the taste, to simply how unclean it made him feel, but on the bleakest of nights, it was a kind companion. It had become a seldom habit; after finishing his tour he found he could go months without it, at least until he awoke sweat drenched, legs damp and tangled among the sheets, body just itching for _something_ , on a near nightly basis. There were times he'd shuffle from his apartment, barefoot in the street, clutching a pack of Camels. He could mow through the entire box before reality tapped on his shoulder, reminded him he should maybe go back inside. He refused to smoke indoors, found shame in how the stench clung to the furniture like a dirty secret.

Most people he encountered smoked, if not religiously, then casually, conversationally, and for him it was a particular catharsis. He smoked until his nostrils burnt and threatened to bleed, until his throat craved only soot, never oxygen.

He always kept a pack or two strewn someplace among the apartment. He didn’t need to smoke them. He wasn’t addicted; it was just in case.

“Hide these from me,” Shiro had instructed once, holding out a glossy pack of cigarettes just daring to be opened. Keith had only raised an eyebrow before snatching the damned thing. He had dropped it into the trash, then left for class.

Shiro smoked the whole damn pack.

He avoided kissing Keith that evening, sure the taste alone would harass his boyfriend if his nicotine breathe already hadn’t.

It wasn't so much that Keith hated it (and he really did, he openly despised it) rather, it was more about how Shiro hated what the smoking represented. It was the pieces, in all their jagged edges, that he could spend a lifetime trying to reconcile. It was the part of a puzzle that remained colorless, revealed no context; merely blended in with all the other dark shapes. It wasn't a satisfying section to fit together, perhaps it was just the shadow of a building, eventually formed after being tiresomely crammed together. They were ugly pieces, monotone in their solidarity, powerful in their unity. They were just a small part of a much bigger picture, and effortlessly overcast by the colorful complexity of the entire scene, but still they remained. Shiro didn't want anybody to see them. As the sun settled and the colors faded, the shadow would grow stronger, taller, until everything became coated in its blackness. He couldn't recognize himself in the dark. He was afraid of the shadow.

So he stopped smoking.

He made a promise.

However, he just shrugs when Prorok asks. He shrugs and the man eventually nods. It suffices.

“Come hang with us, anyway,” Prorok impatiently suggests, but Shiro knows a command when he hears one.

It is an unspoken rule - can’t just say ‘no’ in prison. It has to be cloaked without suggesting disrespect or inciting conflict. Perhaps a _‘maybe later’_ or _‘I'm meeting someone soon’_ would be excuse enough. Shiro is still flipping through his choices, composing a response, as Prorok wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him away from the chain linked fence. Thace follows.  

It's an option-less matter.

They stroll him toward the opposite end of the courtyard, smoke trailing lazily in their path, and after seconds of drawn silence, Prorok clears his throat, “Hear about those guys who got messed up in the showers last week?”

Shiro feels himself tense at that. He's unsure who Prorok addresses as he looks straight into the horizon, devoid of interest. The question hangs in the air for a moment, and Shiro feels it threatening to multiple, and suddenly the grip on his shoulder seems to tighten. The world spins a bit faster.

“No,” Shiro says.

He mentally face palms. He expects two sets of unconvinced eyes to glare back at him, but it doesn’t come to pass. There’s a strain in his jaw.

As far as Shiro is concerned, the incident in the showers is none of his. As a matter of fact, it never happened. Hell,  _last week_ never happened. He could forget it; he could forget a lot of things.

A guard had pulled him aside after noticing the fresh bruises. They were black and purple and absolutely aching, attracting an onslaught of stares. He was asked where they had come from and who was responsible. Was it during a fight? Was it gang related?

Remaining vague kept him out of trouble (any stupid lie would do, after all). Lying was never quite his strong suit, yet… it was becoming easier, no longer guilt tripped him in the way he was once accustomed. He wondered if he should be concerned.  

When he zones back in, he’s at the center of attention, surrounded by men he’s mostly never noticed before, all stealing glances in his direction. Many of them pace, wary of Shiro but nodding in respect toward his company. It is uncharted land; he’s never been to this end of the yard before. He realizes if he had wandered this way on his own, he’d probably be greeted by some creative imitation of a knife.

Further back stands two men, and Shiro recognizes both. One tall and slim, somber faced, sleeves rolled up to reveal impeccably detailed black ink. The other, grinning wildly and just the _knowing_ , the smugness that floods his aura, is enough to jerk Shiro to a brazen halt.   

_Found you._

“Why did you bring me here?” The apprehension is instinctual.

There’s a ringing in his ears, an incentive to brace himself, prepare for the worse; attack. There’s a metal taste in his mouth and somehow it makes his eyes sting, and he can smell burning. A logical part of him reassures the source as cigarettes, but his nose scrunches at the assault of melted flesh and charred bone. The concrete beneath him cracks, crumbles, and there’s a hum overhead, the motor of a jet engine engulfing the sky. His body is weightless, he could fly, he could fight anyone.

“Fucking Asians,” Prorok remarks, slapping Shiro’s back and somehow it is enough to bring his boiling blood to a simmer, the insult barely grazing. “We don’t bite, man.”

There’s a dishonest rumble of laughter that emits from several men, prolonging the uneasiness of the moment.

“Much,” adds the slender, thoroughly tattooed man. The sharpness of his face nearly that of a snake, venomous eyes to match. He is still several feet away, arms crossed and gaze pensive.

The rugged man beside him, the amputee, approaches Shiro with easy confidence and the poise of an old friend. For a moment, Shiro is sure he will walk right through him, consume his space, and defy the laws of matter. He remembers their encounter at the showers (except that didn’t happen, _it didn’t_ ) and his mouth trembles in remembrance; how sweetly the blood had settled there. His muscles twitch, pleading him to flee, yet his feet remain planted and it is the age old burden of gravity. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself: he’s been waiting for this.

There is a sound.

More of a blaring, a mournful shriek that overwhelms everything inside Shiro as he watches everyone drop in near unison. He is petrified by the noise, unable to control his body, and can’t will himself to move, let alone breathe. It sounds like an air raid siren, _exactly_ like an air raid siren, and a switch in his mind flicks up and down. Run. Hide. Run. Hide. He hears guards moving frantically, aggressively shouting for all inmates to drop to the ground. He hears them, but it all sounds so far away, like an altercation taking place behind a thick sheet of glass. The sound of human speech muffles, blurs, until they are simple vibrations in the air. Soon, the noise dissolves, stretching so thinly it loses all semblance of structure, of what it used to be. Soon, he can’t hear anything at all.

He’s pulled down by the collar of his jumpsuit, landing submissively and as graceful as a bag of bricks. His ribs smack against the concrete, and he gasps, winded by the impact. He can’t help but wonder if it is a sign, some delayed karma.

His palms are shaking, vainly shielding his ears, although he cannot recall going through the motions. He pulls his hands away and somehow the world remains silent; it is nothing more but a muted hum. His eyelashes drunkenly flutter at the sensation of warm breath batting his face. The man is only inches away, fist still grasped in fabric, wrinkling Shiro's collar. His expression is unreadable, but Shiro now notices a faint, mangled scar marking the right side of his face, and how it curves, spreads at the top, like the naked branches of a tree. It is an old wound.

“What do you want?” Shiro hisses through gritted teeth.

“You already know.”

It is chilling, the finality in which he speaks. Shiro tries to pull the reigns on his mind, to avoid crashing into what this man is most surely suggesting, and his mouth twitches, contorts into a firm line with ditch effort.

“Look, what happened back there, you didn’t need to do that.” Shiro’s chest tightens, cold sweat coating his body like an additional layer of skin, heart pounding against the cement. “You didn’t have to make it your business.” He is treading murky water, and honestly, he doesn’t want to piss this guy off, someone twice his size and backed up by a stone faced entourage. He has to steer clear from making enemies, can’t step on any more toes; he has to be cautious.

“But I did and you can still walk the same. _Lucky you._ ”

“I can look out for myself- I didn’t _ask_ for your help,” Shiro thrills in frustration and the man’s mouth promptly twists into something of a grin, eyes narrowing in satisfaction.

“You won’t make it in here, not alone.” The manner in which he speaks is matter of factly, but the expression the stranger sports is damn near cocky, like he is proposing a challenge. “You’re a damn animal, I’ll give you that, but your instincts won’t always save you.”

Shiro flinches at the words, the implication, and suddenly he recalls in stark detail how he had passionately ripped the skin off another man just last week, how he’d done it with his teeth. He even came close to gauging an eye out, as if tasked with some medieval punishment. The memory overwhelms him, makes him see double.

“I’ve made it this far.”

“Sneaking past landmines and crawling through mud doesn’t prepare you for this. See these bastards?” The nudge of his head is a subtle motion. “Most of them have double what you’re doing; some have been here forever. Some have nothing left to lose,” his voice drops dangerously at that, tapering the words to a whisper. “I’m trying to be your friend, _hombre_.”

“You want to be my _friend_?” Shiro says, skeptical and with an ill humored laugh to match. The man chuckles at that, and the warmth in it is nearly rousing, although oddly placed.

The man leans in close, hovering only an inch from Shiro’s lips, exhaling slowly against his mouth. Shiro’s own breath hitches, intoxicated by the proximity, and a kind of euphoria runs up his spine. The man hums with delight, charmed by Shiro’s stupor, and the noise is a pleasant vibration, somewhat calming.  

“If that’s the arrangement you prefer,” he tilts his head ever so slightly, as if meaning to close the gap between them, and Shiro is so caught up in the strange intimacy of it, so desperate for contact, that it’s a struggle to not lean forward, close the gap. Shiro can sense the hunger, how the aura encasing them seems to have shifted from mutual malice to something far more suggestive.

 _Arrangement._ He runs it through his head and he runs it through again, then again, and again, until he’s able to create a mental picture of it. It illuminates before him like a neon sign, like something he’s seen outside of a gloomy bar that gave promise to temporary companionship. Without fail he could reel in someone as lonely and closeted as himself; he was social, well mannered, and if he was horny enough, could laugh at any joke. They were memories that blurred together like the fumbling of his keys, unlocking his front door while some stranger latched onto his neck, kissing until they met his face, ravishing the insides of his mouth. _“You’re gorgeous,”_ they would murmur between stripping him, stroking him, but the words were empty. They would leave in the morning, and sometimes they even left that same night. That was the arrangement.  

He recalls a man that fucked him in the parking lot of a bar, how he had made some brash comment about Shiro’s “type” being a rarity, like he was something exotic, a prize to be won. The recollection leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he wonders if this is him about to relive that same exploitation.

“I _prefer_ to be left alone.”

“What if I said I’m not giving you a choice?” And that rubs Shiro in all the wrong places.

“I make my own damn choices, no one else gets to do that for me. Thank you for helping me, but whatever you think is going on here, rest assured it’s not,” he speaks quickly, forehead flush against the man’s, flame in his eyes. “You don’t seem to be getting the hint, so let me make this real simple: I am not interested.” He’s not sure how deep the hole is, but he is solely responsible for digging out every goddamn speck of dirt. Gratuitously, he adds:

“Got it, _amigo_?”

If he ever deserved a punch in the mouth, he figures right about now would be the time.

Suddenly he's been _pulled_ and automatically flinches, prepared for the strike he's undoubtedly earned, but instead, is brought to his feet. He lands, wobbly at first, legs behaving like a rag doll's, before his muscles realign to grant him some stability. The hand retracts its firm hold, freeing him, and for some reason, its absence leaves him feeling weird and out of place. The group of men surrounding them are all standing now. They pat the dust from their jumpsuits, groan at the guards as they echo, “ _False alarm”_ throughout the courtyard, and it's all the explanation they deserve.

Accidents happen. After all, this whole thing is an accident.

He's about to slip away, eager to leave unnoticed while everyone is still adjusting, but the opportunity is squandered as he's snatched, strong arm caging him from hip to torso. He is swiftly reeled in, his back flush against a stiff chest, easily towered by his captor. The man exhales into Shiro's ear, who shudders with a kind of yearning, body unable to discern unwanted touch when touch is all it wants. The sensation of being taken off guard is nothing short of inebriating, it makes his skin crawl in the most pleasant way. The man’s voice is gruff, dominating, and all the reason, all the harbored disgust, leaves Shiro without a goodbye.

“I should kill you for talking to me like that,” he drawls, blunt nails digging into Shiro's hip, harder, _harder,_ as to emphasize the threat, “But I want to see what else that mouth of yours can do.”

It sets Shiro aflame, some part anger, another part panic, a much worse part guttural longing. He is no longer rigid, just still, limp, and completely compliant to how he's being manhandled. The man nips at Shiro's earlobe, probes the soft flesh, and surely this juvenile teasing shouldn't have him shaking so hard. He’s able to keep himself from leaning into it, but the groan that resonates from his throat can't be helped. Apparently, it is the weakness the man has been waiting for, and he's able to drag it out of Shiro again, this time louder, with a harder bite.

“Good boy.”

The moment he’s released his feet are moving with the intention of escaping to someplace far. His head is reared in an attempt to hide his flushed features, but makes the mistake of peering to his side, sees a flash image of Thace, who clearly saw everything. There is a sympathy in his eyes that Shiro almost misses due to the brevity of it.

The group takes plain notice of his leave now, and there's someone calling back to him, voice tinged in light disappointment, who he can only assume is Prorok. There are things being said to him, intermingled with Spanish, that are jeers to come back, to keep walking, to “go back to Japan”. It's playground bullying that lacks any real substance - tasteless and unoriginal - but then it hits him like a rock to the skull, that these are full grown men.

He disappears like smoke in the atmosphere; gone like a moment in time and there is no telling if he was ever there to begin with.

 

.

 

He’s brought into a room for a body search as is standard protocol. They tell him to strip and he strips. They tell him to squat, cough, and he does that, too. He avoids eye contact to stave off the embarrassment, mutely does as he’s told, and the only thing that ever makes such an ordeal less shameful is the mutual misery behind it. No one wants to be in that room, the glazed over expressions of the guards tells him that much, and he wonders how many naked bodies they had to see before it become boring, just another part of the job, like filing papers.

He’s instructed to dress and hurriedly complies, buttoning the front of his jumpsuit, hand swiping over his prisoner number. The guards escort him from the room, down a short hallway, through a barred door… The area is large and open, tables organized in rows that stretch several feet from each other, and there are patches of color throughout the room, dotting the space like a painting. It seems odd to him, how vivid the hues are, but it is a sea of navy jumpsuits, white walls and gray ceilings that have become his everyday palette. He sees someone wearing a green shirt and is stunned by how vibrant it is; the green he knows is undercooked and hard to swallow, but _this_ green is incredible. He skims through faces -  vastly tired and impatient, relieved, worried, wet - in hopes of locking onto one he might recognize. A flash of red makes his heart plunge.

The shirt Keith wears is the color of a faded stop sign, the silhouette of a cat, dead on its back, printed on the center. Shiro is mildly surprised there is no jacket framing his figure, supposes he may have been asked to take off anything bulky or intimidating for the sake of an in person meeting. He looks so small, in just a t-shirt and dark jeans, so lost as his eyes flicker, searching, seized by uncertainty. He finally meets Shiro's stare, face flooding with emotion, tilting his head with a look of near disbelief and mouth hanging open with a silent, “ _Shiro?_ ”

They're on each other in moments, bodies meeting like magnets and Shiro nearly lifts Keith off the ground as they embrace in a blind flurry. Shiro buries his face deep into Keith's neck, one hand caressing his hair, the other holding him close by the waist, and Shiro relishes at how the younger man’s shirt rides up his back ever so slightly, skin cool and inviting. Keith is shaking hard, his sobs warm against Shiro's chest as he loses himself. Shiro gently kisses the side of Keith's neck again and again and again, tears pricking his own eyes as his heart heaves with an overwhelming grief.

“It's okay,” Shiro whispers with great promise, barely pushing past the trembling in his own voice, “It's okay, baby.”

He pulls back a bit, just enough to press his forehead to Keith's, who stares at him like he's the sun and moon and every star in between. Keith struggles to choke back the sounds in his throat and strands of hair stick to his damp face, and he is so vulnerable, so torn open.

“I love you,” Shiro kisses him then, “I love you.”

It's a series of small, feverish kisses and Keith goes limp, eyes fluttering to a close, clinging to Shiro like it's the last time they'll ever touch. Keith's mouth moves with such raw desperation, such an aching to be whole again, and Shiro knows he could fill the void if he had more time. A startled breath escapes Keith, overwhelmed and taken aback by Shiro’s eagerness, suddenly unable to keep the pace as their shared movements become less innocent and merge into something more base. Shiro gives a firm squeeze at Keith’s hip and the younger man hums in response, momentarily losing himself to the sensation.

A guard from across the room tells them to separate, _no excessive touching,_ but Shiro is slow to retract, and cups Keith's face in his hands for one more kiss. The younger man leans into it, resting his weight against Shiro, finding comfort in how well their bodies fit together. Keith's hands maintain their death grip, still clutching Shiro's jumpsuit even as he pulls away. After another beat, maybe two, Keith wills himself into letting go. There are only inches keeping them apart, but the space, the loss, seems to stretch a decade.

“ _Fuck._..” Keith hurriedly wipes his face with a sleeve, erasing the evidence as he attempts re-entry to a proper, public atmosphere. It forces Shiro to remember where he is; where they are.

Shiro is about to lead Keith to a nearby table, eager to sit down and have a conversation without a sheet of glass separating them, but his brain nags, urges him to look at something lingering at the corner of his eye. He complies and finds himself entranced for a moment, completely taken by the view of a slender suited woman, with a head of hair the most particular shade of gray. It’s done up in a neat bun, bangs carefully brushed from her face on either side. She looks to Shiro cordially, the blue of her eyes gleaming like the surface of some untouched ocean Shiro has made promises to take Keith to. She takes the man’s stare as an invitation and moves with such comfort, such determination, that surely she is a force to be reckoned with. Shiro likes her immediately.

A wash of relief floods over him, one that he isn’t quite expecting at all, and is suddenly so _grateful_ she is a woman. She is dark skinned and so unlike the image that might typically come to mind at the word _lawyer_ ; most lawyers he’d ever known were men, commonly white, and often times in their middle age. He wonders if Keith had intentionally sought her out with these things in mind. There was a spark to it; minority representing minority.

She offers her right hand, expression maintaining a friendliness so sincere Shiro might actually let himself believe it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shirogane,” Her accent is a pleasant surprise and serves to accentuate her overall charm. He’s still absorbing her presence, captivated by something he can’t quite place, then it hits him. She is the first woman he has seen in a month.

He extends his right arm, hand meeting in the middle for a concise shake, and is instantly self conscious, embarrassed even. He feels… filthy. He _is_ filthy and begrudgingly recounts every blemished surface he has encountered today, scrunching his nose at the general uncleanliness of it all. He feels like a gaping wound, threatening to soil the skin of anyone so bold as to examine the damage. He wonders what could incite such a desire. He wonders why anyone would want to get their hands dirty.

“Please,” he says with some delay, and somehow, among it all, the smile comes naturally, “ _Shiro_  is fine”

“Shiro,” she repeats, and she's smiling now too, seemingly delighted by the nickname, “You may call me Allura.”

Shiro assumes this is the same “by the book” routine she practices with all her to-be clients, although her demeanor is surprisingly amicable. He knows exactly who she is; knows a bonafide lawyer when he sees one, and this one has a reputation for beating the odds (or so Keith had said). Shiro had signed off on her visitation nearly a week ago for approval, so her appearance comes as no real surprise. A less subtle heads up wouldn't have gone unappreciated, though. He suspects Keith had arranged this meeting, since he’s been the one itching to hire her. It was already a decision Shiro couldn't fully commit to, was more on the fence about it than he dared vocalize. Keith was probably worried Shiro would change his mind, and the concern wasn’t without warrant; the older man had made half hearted attempts, but didn't dare go full force on trying to sway someone as hardheaded as Keith Kogane. He had tried reasoning, played the _money_ card and the lack thereof, flashed the classic: _it might not even work._ It all fell on deaf ears, though. Keith was unapologetically stubborn. He had hope.

They had rubbed the topic raw for a few days over the phone before unceremoniously dropping it. There was an undeniable appeal in avoiding the conversation. It was a temporary solution.

Now it is an argument waiting to happen.

“There's just a few things I'd like to go over. I promise I won't take up much of your time.” She motions them over to an unoccupied table and Keith is at Shiro’s side in an instant, who wants nothing more than to lace their hands together, eager for contact. Shiro can sense Keith’s unease, takes note of how his body shudders, distress in his step. They sit side by side, and the younger man inches his chair closer, _closer_ until his shoulder meets Shiro’s. The woman, Allura, makes her place across the short span of the table, absently tucking stray locks behind her ear as she sits. She rests her hands on the wooden surface, neatly folding one above the other. There is an appropriate pause.

“I did some research on your case, as much as public record would allow.” Her tone is formal, professional. “From that information alone, I can derive several mishaps in the initial police investigation, as well as your trial.”

Shiro blinks at that, he blinks a few times, dumbfounded by her straightforwardness; the mere initiative.

“What did you find?” he asks.

“Not enough,” she says, “And those documents are convincing to an untrained eye. The narrative they’ve painted you in is particularly gruesome.”

“You mean the one where I beat a man to death?” Shiro says dryly, thoughtless, uncaring to how cruel it may sound.

“You didn’t take the plea bargain,” she calmly notes. “Most people in your situation would; anything to serve less time. Why didn’t you?”

“Why would I confess to a crime I didn’t commit?”

“But you did confess. You confessed to an officer and that audio recording was presented to the jury.” Shiro tenses at that, remembers how devastating that moment had been, how every face in the courtroom twisted in disgust at the verbal recounting. It was a graphic depiction of how he’d brutalized another human being in a voice so exhausted, so detached, he couldn’t recognize it as his own. Allura continues. “Yet you still pleaded not guilty. Why?”

Keith slides his fingers along Shiro’s knuckles from beneath the table. They finally join hands and it is the most natural thing.

“That confession is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he glances away as he says it, still carrying the shame. He returns his gaze to Allura, her stare is relentless. “I was in a bad place. That interrogation lasted hours and by then...”

He tries to arrange himself, wanting to relay his story in the most pleasing fashion without betraying the honesty of it. Everything he’s ever said, every nuance has a history of working against him. Before he can work up the nerve, Keith perks up.

“Fucking animals questioned him 11 hours straight; no attorney.” Keith’s brows furrow in blatant annoyance, his grip hardening on Shiro. “That’s a hell of a long time to be force fed the idea you’re a _murderer_.”

Shiro swallows hard at the word. He was a murderer, though, had killed in the name of freedom or liberty or some other patriotic garbage he’d become numb to hearing. The lives he took went unaccounted for, as if worthless. Killing an enemy was no crime, it was justified, _celebrated,_ like a deafening smack squashing an insect. Those stains were forever.

“False confessions aren't uncommon. They mainly occur among minors and other mentally susceptible individuals.” She speaks plainly and without judgment, but Shiro feels trapped behind a microscope. It’s not untrue, what she is implying, he has a troublesome mental history and it is soft spot often poked numb.

“Shiro _isn’t_ crazy,” Keith nearly barks.

“Keith-”

“Please, don't misunderstand. I’m aware that Shiro’s mental health was a point of interest for the prosecution.” And it is an ugly topic, vomit inducing at best, rotting all out in the open, like tangled entrails baking under a blazing sun. Keith’s palm is slick against his own, and it is a reminder; reminds him of the closeness, and he is lacing their hands together now, their fingers interlocking with a promise. Allura’s eyes are piercing and she is saying, “The defense was lacking, but your story could be believable with some new evidence. A better alibi certainly wouldn't hurt.”

It sort of hits him then.

“Do you usually represent clients you yourself don’t believe?”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, well you’re implying it,” Keith huffs.

Allura leans back against her chair then, eyes finally tearing from Shiro. She takes a moment to collect herself, inspects her painted nails for a moment with dull interest before sighing. Every movement appears meaningful, an air to her presence that demands attention, respect. She appears less tense now, more casual, like the three of them have all known each other for some time, and it is a concept that Shiro lets himself drift on, if only for a moment. She is crossing her arms now, and Shiro is sure Keith would be mirroring that exact pose if not for their joined hands.

“Mr. Shirogane,” she starts, “I have never before seen a case rely so heavily on circumstantial evidence. In my professional opinion, and as the courts have decided, you _are_ guilty without a shadow of a doubt.”

Shiro swears he can feel the veins along Keith’s hand protrude, notices the twitch in his jaw, and that alone is a tell tale sign. With a few light jerks, Shiro is able to free his hand, runs it soothingly along the inside of his boyfriend’s thigh and gives a firm squeeze against the denim. It is something of a reassurance.

“However…” she says, leaning in with a creak of her chair, “I have made such assessments on cases before and _sometimes_ I am delightfully disproven. Perhaps, we can make that happen here.”

He understands the game now, and she plays it like a champ. Allura flicks back a wisp of hair that has somehow managed to come loose, and Shiro watches how it kicks up into the air, glimmering momentarily in the light. She seems so unreal and Shiro’s heart swells a little; he has never been so entranced by a woman. It reminds him how prone he is to falling in love with strangers, if only in passing, if simply for their aesthetic. She carries herself effortlessly, portraying a kind of strength and elegance he almost envies. She is terrifying, he decides.

“Perhaps,” Shiro says, all but sealing the promise.

“If you wish to proceed, you know how to contact me,” She says, glancing to Keith. She is standing now and Shiro stands too, barely catching her hand in time to give it a firm shake. “It was good to make your acquaintance, Shiro. May we meet again.”

She moves to shake Keith’s hand, who meets her in the middle with a well-masked reluctance. He mutters something of a _thanks_ , but Shiro’s ears have long adjusted to Keith’s subtleties, recognizes it as anything but. She goes the way she came, disappearing into a far corner, her absence thinning the air.

“Bitch,” Keith says. Shiro laughs a little harder than he should.

“Seemed nicer over the phone, did she?” Shiro teases, mostly joking, but a little curious how she ever managed to win Keith’s favor to begin with. Keith could rarely play nice with head strong people, as it rivaled his own hot headedness.

“I didn’t think she was gonna tear into you like that. We can find someone else-”

“No, I like her. She’s got tact.”

Keith blinks at that, a little shocked.

“So you do want a lawyer?” Keith asks, doubting his own words. “You want _this_ lawyer?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “She’s good, you said so yourself. We’ll make it work.”

Keith appears split between emotions, confusion riddling his face, attempting to dissect the words of near optimism Shiro has just spouted. There is an argument forming behind his lips, and Shiro can tell how badly he wants to be swayed, struggling to believe they may have actually just formed an agreement. Keith seems prepared to protest, ready to debate why Shiro had been so resistant to getting a lawyer, and how he is suddenly so willing. Keith deflates with a sound, a kind of whine that communicates defeat, acceptance, and it's endearing above anything else. He closes the distance between them, swiftly pecks Shiro on the lips and _moans_ into it. That sets Shiro ablaze in an instant, who mimics the motion and lingers just a second longer.

“Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.” Keith brushes the dark fringe from Shiro’s face, fingers smoothing small knots. He leans in for another quick kiss and Shiro _melts_. “I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

“Are you gonna tell me what happened,” Keith tries, grazing the bruises along Shiro’s neck with a feather like touch, “Or do I have to get use to seeing you like this?”

He had nearly forgotten the bruises, his cheeks flush shamefully at how casually Keith takes note of them. Surely, Keith noticed minutes ago and has just been waiting for a perfectly vulnerable moment to let Shiro know it, too.

Shiro releases a shaky breath, eyes drifting shut, dizzy from how _good_ Keith touching him feels. He needily leans into it, ignoring the sensitivity of the marks, and he wants to stay here, just like this, preferably forever. The pit of his stomach burns with an over boiled yearning that’s been building inside of him, building for weeks. It’s almost impossible not to dwell on it, but he emerges, eyes sullenly meeting Keith.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says and Keith _laughs_. A sound that is brittle with half spite, half concern, could even be mistaken as cruel.

“You’re sorry,” Keith glowers, mouth twitching, then repeats it under his breath. He continues his ministrations, fingertips raising bumps on Shiro’s skin, the touch a stark contrast. “Sorry doesn’t do anything. Sorry doesn’t do shit.”

Shiro recognizes the fight behind his eyes, how he is struggling to stay mad to ward off the worry. Anger is easy for Keith; it is second nature. It is fire - red and reckless - and Keith has had a lifetime of practice in every regard, has perfected the cultivation as well as the execution. He is good with anger, it is complex and simple all at the same time, a road well worn. There is the slightest shift of color in Keith’s eyes, like the death of a far away star, and it must be why his chest clenches in warning, why his voice breaks a little as he asks, “When are you going to talk to me, Shiro?”

His composure snaps just like that, a strangled noise catching inside his throat. He is quick to swallow it down, but it comes again, then again, until it’s washing over both shoulders with quick succession, has him squeezing his eyes shut, mouth in a tight line. He cups the back of Shiro’s head, gently tilts him down, _closer_ until their foreheads gently knock, peers up with watery eyes.

It worries him because Keith crying is something he only seldom sees, and when it is done, it is done through gritted teeth and snarl of reluctance. He remembers the first time he saw Keith cry, how he’d pridefully bitten down on a quivering lip to hush himself. It is so unlike that now.

“Talking, _communicating_ \- that’s the one thing we still have. I don’t want to lose that.” The way the wetness clings to Keith’s eyelashes pangs at Shiro’s chest, makes it feel impossibly tight, and he wants nothing more than to kiss away all the dread, kiss him until he’s senseless. Weakly, Keith says, “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“I’m right here, Keith. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You _fucking_ \- you better not be.” The threat is feeble, but very much alive behind Keith’s reddening eyes. He is tense, body so rigid with stress and Shiro is able to identify it with ease, if only because it is something so prevalent within himself. Keith is still staring him down, intent on a response that might sate him.

“I promise. I promise, okay?” Shiro says easily, but a nervous laugh escapes all on its own. Keith is still tearing through him, unblinking, unsatisfied, and it makes Shiro’s stomach sink a little - it is both fear and fondness. Keith is bridled with intensity and it leaves Shiro awestruck, how even with tears dampening his face he is able to be so piercing. He is falling all over again, as if he could ever forget how he fell in the first place. He caves. “I got jumped last week. Just a few bruises. It’s fine now.”

It’s not untrue.

Keith pulls away, eyebrows scrunching together now and he appears half stunned. His eyes dip down, like he is recalling an event, connecting pieces that once refused to fit, that now snap together with ease. Keith exhales through his nose, looks up to Shiro with a slight tilt of the head, greeting him with a softer expression. Shiro just now notices the greasy shine to his hair, wonders if he’s been remembering to take care of himself, has doubts. The discoloration beneath his eyes has his face looking all the paler.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

“Jesus, Shiro…” he is shaking his head, still recovering from something new, fleshy, and throbbing, something Shiro himself has already bandaged and forgotten. The younger man looks away again, then steals another glance, a look of sheer _disbelief_ and manages an incredulous huff of laughter. “Sorry, I’m- It’s not funny.”

“It’s not,” Shiro agrees, incredibly neutral. He wonders if they both mean the same thing.

“I just wish you told me sooner,” Keith quietly admits. The moment his voice fades, they’re washed over by a steady hum of background noise, and it is all casual conversation that neither have the attention span to really zone in on. Shiro holds both his palms open from beneath the table, a silent invitation that might actually be more of an apology, and he prays Keith will accept it. The younger man, after a moment of hesitation, slides his fingertips along Shiro’s calloused flesh, until his hands are fully planted over a larger set. Keith chews on his bottom lip, looking a little unsure, possibly musing on something to say, but the silence persists. Shiro tries instead.

“Columbia launched today.” It is the first thing to come to mind.

“Oh?”

“Missed it.”

“Hmm.”

They stay like that for awhile, hand in hand, clock ticking from the opposite side of the room, incessant, without a voice yet a constant reminder. This moment is just a small slice of time, sliced in half, sliced again; just crumb sized pieces mashed together - somehow and someway - to form an entire universe. Shiro considers his own time, if he’ll survive long enough to see his hair turn white, how unfair it is that he could theoretically live to see 90 when someone more deserving couldn’t make 25. He thinks about Keith’s time, how he has already sacrificed so much, so willing to _keep_ sacrificing, and it makes his gut knot with bitterness, like he’s swallowed something sour. It’s not fair, and he wants to relay this information, has to share it, scream it, but dreads he’ll be meet with an uncaring audience. Someone but him has to know this. It is frustrating how no one could ever understand it the way he does: the unfairness of it all.

“I love you,” Keith is saying now, kissing Shiro’s knuckles.

It is cruel, Shiro decides, how something so sweet could touch him there, so ignorant of the danger.

 

.

 

Everything, all of his belongings, he can hold in one hand.

It is nine photographs and a soda he indulgently purchased from commissary this morning. He is denied the humanity of simply moving the drink to his new cell, told to just trash it. Instead, he gulps down the entire thing while holding two guards in an eye lock. They are mostly unimpressed and as his stomach flips at the sudden intake of sugar, he decides it wasn’t worth it.

He is moved late in the evening while the other prisoners remain locked away, assumedly to keep the peace, so he can be neatly shuffled along without much distraction. Each cell he passes, each prisoner, either seems to stare him down with blatant hunger or plain indifference. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, shoulders squared, doesn’t dare give anyone the invitation of eye contact. The cell block is enveloped in near silence save for the low hum in the air and occasional clunk of boots scuffing the floor. He catches a glimpse to his right, of Thace leaning against the front of his cell, wrists resting against the bars for just a taste of the outside. Shiro double takes, surprised to see the man again so soon, notices Prorok dead asleep on the bunk behind him, and for some reason, a weak, “ _hey_ ” is escaping Shiro’s lips.

It’s barely audible, the way he says it, but the entire cell block responds as if he just spoke over an intercom, perking up with anecdotes or insults as he passes them now. Someone asks him his name, which he ignores. Someone else asks, this time louder and he ignores it still.

He is introduced to his new cell with nothing more than a heavy clank of metal and swift click of a lock.

Home sweet home.

It is a few seconds before his brain even registers the odd looking man before him. He is dark skinned, donning a thick beard and is curiously sizing Shiro up with round eyes, posture openly polite, almost like he’s been waiting _._

The usual bunks are to the right side of the room, much like how they were in his last cell. To the left is a small desk, clearly only meant to accommodate one person, just two drawers that appear more useful as decoration than storage. It seems barely sufficient as a workplace, yet apparently serves that function anyhow. There are stacks of books running so high they begin to lopside near the top, fated to fall. Torn, text heavy pages litter the accompanying wall, most marked with illegible note taking and feverish scribbles. There is a book flipped open, a page illustrating forms of time travel followed by a haunting diagram of a black hole. A book on physics catches his eye, the name of the author hard to distinguish but knows it well from the cover alone. He has a copy back at the apartment, wonders if it is busy collecting dust, hopeful Keith might be utilizing it in his studies.

“So, uh… which bunk am I taking?” It is all he can think to say, completely forgoing a proper introduction. He can’t be bothered to indulge this stranger with simple pleasantries, can’t even muster the decency. What an opportunity for conversation - a cellmate intrigued by the potentials and phenomena of science - and how quick he is to smother it. He is forgetting his manners. It’s been a long day.

“Oh! Well, yes, as you can see, either bunk would be suitable. However, for someone your size… In the event of a natural disaster, perhaps an earthquake, which is very common in the state of Nevada -  oh, isn’t that terrifying?” The man is flapping his arms around, pointing in random directions, in a way that is without reason and borders insane. His pupils are blown, brain clearly working double time. “Anyway, if you were to take the top bunk my chances of being _crushed to death_ nearly double!”

What.

Shiro’s eyes begin to sting, he is caught utterly dumbfounded and forgets how to blink. The man is watching him expectantly, and he’s damn near sweating, so eager to hear a response from Shiro. Shiro swallows hard and it has the strange man leaning in ever so slightly, anticipating.

“You can just take the top bunk, then. If that’ll make you feel better,” he is surprisingly calm as he says this, although is really a bit irked, can’t quite fathom where this very specific fear of being crushed may have arisen from. Chalks it up to plain anxiety, perhaps mental illness, which is something he of all people should be empathetic of.

“You see, I much rather take the bottom, and the reason is this: I have weak knees.” He demonstrates this, said knees wobbling to further his point.

“It really doesn’t matter to me, just take the bottom,” Shiro encourages with a forced smile.

“How much do you weigh? I do not need an exact number, a rough estimate would do. You look quite heavy, close to 200 pounds? No, not as much muscle as I initially thought,” the man is examining him now with a careful eye, poking his bicep, stretching his right arm, forcing it to flex. Shiro’s face goes hot, baffled by how unnecessary these precautions are. “Yes, in the event of the bed collapsing, you would _surely_ kill me.”

Shiro pulls away, almost knocking against the bars caging them inside. He wants to ask this man what his damage is, why he is so caught up in such a bizarre concept. Clearly, he has little regard for personal space, invades Shiro’s bubble as if the concept of privacy is as abstract as a steel bed collapsing under very particular circumstances. The man seems to be taking measurements now, using his fingers as a ruler to map out the distance separating both bunks. Shiro hears him murmuring something about _velocity_.

“I’ll take the bottom,” Shiro says with some assertion, hoping this may end it. This man is a menace and there is a brief notion he could just be blissfully unaware of this fact himself. That just makes Shiro angrier. The man thoughtfully combs a hand down his beard, then perches an eyebrow.

“No, I just decided, I want bottom,” he sounds pleased by his ability to finally make a decision, and Shiro should be relieved, but his own skin feels like it’s just been scrubbed raw. Suddenly, there is a dozen probing fingers trying to graze the oversensitive flesh. He shudders as the phantom pain encases him, maddened by the torment.

“Wait, so  _now_ you want bottom? You were just having an aneurysm about bottom 30 seconds ago,” he is completely tone deaf, but aware he is speaking at a level reserved for only the worst of scenarios. Politeness, reservation, those are barely passing thoughts anymore. “You know what, fine! You take the bottom.”

“I have just decided: I do not want bottom. Not anymore, no thank you,” the man says with a firm nod of his head. It is Shiro’s turn to carelessly wave his arms and he almost drops the photographs he’s been so intent on keeping safe.

“Then take top!” Shiro shouts.

“I would,  _but you are so fat!_ "

They both sleep on the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Title: Takashi and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (except he got to see his BF, so not as bad).


	4. Merry Christmas, Fag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought you heard the last of me, but (unfortunately) evil never dies. 
> 
> This chapter is 15,400 words. There was a lot I wanted to go into, and even now, I feel as though I've fallen short. It's rather hard for me to update regularly because of work, and it's even harder for me to justify writing, as it's a self-indulgent hobby and therefore lacks productivity. Or something. Regardless, if you're somehow invested in this story, thank you and I hope you'll stick by (despite hiatuses). 
> 
> Anyway, finally got into some of that Sheith goodness. Hallelujah.

The year is 1982 and Takashi Shirogane is draining a can of beer like it is the cure for social anxiety.

He doesn't know why he goes out to parties.

He doesn’t know why he goes out at all.

There's someone tugging at his bicep, all warmth and concern, dotting on him to _slow down,_ saying, “We just got here.”

Shiro pulls away the can, his lifeline, and is faced with a rather casual gathering of acquaintances he’s been introduced to a dozen times and at least two people he attended high school with. Chatter echoes from the living room and there’s a group of men making open commentary about a football game Shiro overhears with kind indifference. The terms they use, how their mouths move and the syllables break, is not unlike some alien tongue. He’s unsure if their words blur because he's fighting an anxiety attack, or if he just truly knows shit about football.

He doesn’t realize it until he slips a hand into his pocket, how he’s shaking, the way an animal startles at foreign sights and sounds. The music isn’t even that loud.

It's a Christmas party. It is early December and the artificial tree in the corner is laughably over-decorated, limbs all but drooping under the weight of tacky decorations. The pine needles are a blinding white against the red garland, mimicking what a snow-covered tree might actually look like. The gold flaked star on top rests dangerously close to the ceiling, appearing cramped, taking up space (much like himself). The sweater clinging to his torso is simply too tight now, he clears his throat and the fabric constricts. His appearance is thoughtfully casual, boring even; at least, that is what he hopes for. He is in the mood for drifting tonight, prefers roaming undisturbed and prays to be mistaken as part of the wallpaper, becoming the background of something only vaguely important.

There's a hand sliding seamlessly down his forearm and it leaves a familiar comfort in its wake. Fingers lace with his in a nurturing fashion, coaxing him to shift his gaze and Shiro does just that.

“I'm glad you decided to come out with me tonight,” the voice murmurs affectionately, as if this is a secret meant solely for him, and his heart accepts it as so as it hammers against his chest.

“As if I had a choice.” Shiro pauses to take a swig of beer and it makes his tongue feel grainy. “Kicking and screaming, as always.”

“Hey, no-” a laugh spills out, good-humored, “You told me _yes_ , like, the six times I asked this week.”

“I was being polite. How dare you take advantage of my good upbringing,” Shiro teases, can't begin to fathom how such lightheartedness snuck its way inside him. He welcomes it, prays it will linger and sedate him for the remainder of the evening. He supposes the beer could be the culprit, but he isn't such a lightweight and alcohol never makes him funny.

“Fighting words.”

“I could never hit someone when their glasses look _that_ expensive.”

The beer can is being tugged from him, gulped down like its water rather than the warm, swilled barf it tastes like. It never leaves Shiro's grasp, who watches half stunned as his best friend finishes the drink.

Matt Holt shivers, grimacing at the foul smell of the alcohol, then lets go of Shiro to adjust his eyeglasses. He knows Matt isn’t a drinker, he’s only ever seen him take a sip of wine for communion, during those occasions where the Holt’s insisted upon his company to Sunday mass. _You aren’t baptized_ , Matt would remind him _, don’t take the bread._ Shiro isn't religious, he doesn't pray, but Matt comes from a family of Italian Catholics, and so attending church is a weekly duty. Shiro respects that kind of commitment. The few times he had tagged along felt something like a chore, but truthfully he was just glad to be invited. The Holts retreated to a cozy restaurant for late lunch where they were welcomed as good friends, and Matt would crack terrible jokes that made Shiro hide every smile in his hand. Afterwards, Matt would make a home for himself on top Shiro’s scratchy carpet, creating an ecosystem of soda bottles, take-out noodles, and comic books, engulfed in a smoky cloud of cannabis. It was hard to keep track of how much pot Matt inhaled, but if anything was for certain, it was the fact he only smoked it away from his family, which means he only smoked around Shiro. _You need to relax_ , Matt would say to him, _take some._

He didn’t need to smoke it. Hanging out with Matt probably gave him an everlasting contact high. It would explain why their main activities included eating copious amounts of food and passing out on the couch together. He doubts he ever napped so much as a child, his adult years pioneered by sleep, and if not sleep, than days dizzied with exhaustion. Blinking awake at 4 A.M. with Matt’s head on his shoulder was nothing short of a dream.

Matt is 22, a college graduate with a shiny diploma for his double major in astronomy and computer science - a feat that made him the overachiever Shiro always fell one step short of being. Money helped and the Holts had it.

They are a modest group of intellectuals - Sam Holt, Matt’s father, an accomplished scientist employed by _NASA_ in his heyday, returning to Nevada for an early retirement, determined to utilize the landscape in his personal studies. He would pridefully invite Shiro into the garage to examine his #20TE Observatory Refractor, a telescope marketed for $999.95 in Tasco catalogs. He had never met a man so enthralled by the solar system. _He’s all about ice right now, though_ , Matt had said, explaining his father’s latest leap into researching ice cores, _he went from Space Man to Ice Man overnight. I guess that’s just what happens when you get old._ Coleen Holt is a stay-at-home-mom type, but not the type that secretly despises it. Despite the voice of second-wave feminism encouraging women to derail themselves from their _womenly duties_ \- ending the subservience to their husbands - Coleen admits no dissatisfaction. She chops vegetables in the kitchen, walks the dog in the morning, and curiously reads Sam’s notes before correcting minor inconsistencies. Katie, their daughter, is a sophomore in high school - ridiculously smart, but terribly lazy. At her full potential, she could easily achieve world domination. _Unlikely_ , she counters, _robots are going to take over the world, first._

Together, they are the American dream: the nuclear (space) family.

Matt is well on his way to live the life Shiro breathlessly wants for himself. It was more fantasy, a boyhood dream he couldn't help dwelling on, but quite frankly, he had wanted to be an astronaut. Instead, he settles with a degree in teaching, onto his third year at the local high school. He is a physics teacher and bringing juniors to tears with complex formulas definitely isn't the future he had envisioned for himself. His largest accomplishment peaked at earning _teacher of the month_.

Still, it is a life jarringly brighter than the combat veterans he'd fallen out of touch with. Most had landed face first into a bottle or with a needle inside their vein, a fate that only grazed Shiro or beckoned him on the worst of nights. Which isn’t to say he hasn't toppled into dangerous territory (see: reckless habits). Self-sabotage is an old friend. It is a relationship he can't part with, is repeatedly victimized by, always crawling back to. He could distance himself at times, but never ignore it. He would wave.

All things considered, he got lucky.

Matt lands a playful punch to Shiro's chest accompanied by a wink of failed flirtation. It's innocent, so silly and boyish that Shiro's gut swells with a laugh and the nerves shake away instantly. He wonders how Matt does it, how he's able to make him feel so good.

“You would never hurt me,” Matt says simply. “I’ll grab you another beer.”

“Don't worry about it,” he answers, “I’ll be outside.”

On his way, he bumps into a teacher's assistant from work, a bit tipsy on lukewarm liquor. Her flirting isn't well masked and although unwarranted, Shiro reciprocates with a polite demeanor and matching laugh, aiming to sate her. _You have a great smile,_ she says. She flicks her eyes upward and when he doesn’t follow suit, points to the mistletoe positioned above their heads. Someone whistles. Surely his face flushes, because she giggles and the way she can’t contain herself is almost cute, but ultimately stirs nothing inside him. If only he could be _attracted_ to women... He could hate himself less and end this moment with actual enthusiasm. He lands the briefest kiss on the back of her hand and she squeals with delight, making her crush that more apparent. _See you on Monday,_ she hiccups.

He smokes in the backyard, mostly because it is the quietest place on the property, and although he's sure no one would bat an eye, doesn't want to flood the house with his stink. He’s staring blankly into the sky, hopeful the clouds may disperse to reveal a glimmer of starlight. It had been a muggy summer, the classic Nevada heat cracked the ground and scorched the air. Kinder days had followed, the sky billowed with clouds, thick and grey and heavy with moisture, bringing a sigh of relief throughout the town. The most recent drop in temperature is blissful, welcomed by long sleeved shirts, perhaps even sweaters, and Shiro is grateful to have secluded himself in a backdrop of winter decorations, the gentle glow of Christmas lights hopeful and serene.

He's tapping at his cigarette, ash sprinkling his shoes, before a voice pricks his ears to attention.

“Do you have a light?”

Wordlessly, he pats down the front of his jeans only to discover he’s still holding his lighter. With a flick of his thumb, it sparks to life and he holds it out in plain offering. A moment later, the flame illuminates a solemn face, eyes heavy-lidded in focus, before they peer up to meet Shiro.

He is one of those neutral faced boys with long legs and a set of straight, white teeth that no one ever gets the opportunity to see. He carries himself with an air of reservation, shrugging away to slip a hand into the pocket of his jacket, the leather appearing black at first glance but a deep red upon further inspection. His hair, enviously voluminous, flares out in the back, bangs fall toward the middle of his face and the rest frames his cheekbones. Both of his ears are pierced, silver barbells that glint in the sparse light as he finally pulls away his cigarette. He lifts his chin as if to kiss the sky, unblinking and exhaling a mountain of smoke in one long breath. He is perfect and nothing short of it.

“Thanks,” he says. Shiro only nods at that and is half expecting their encounter to be over but prolongs it with a thought.

“You look like a rockstar,” he says, but he’s not sure why he says it. Perhaps it is because he’s always been awful at flirting, never having to expend much effort in hashing pickup lines, not when he could namelessly enter some washed up bar, make eye contact, and the deal was sealed. He wants to clear his throat and try again, but it’s too late as he receives a humorless laugh.

“And you look like a nerd,” the stranger retorts in a surprisingly non _‘fuck off’_ manner, mouth twitching into a grin, gone the moment it appears. “It’s kinda cute, though.”

“I’m just not as stylish as you,” Shiro admits.

“You dress like a dad,” is his dry response. “That or a librarian.”

Shiro scoffs at that, but isn’t actually offended. He lifts an eyebrow then asks, “Did you come out here to smoke or just make fun of me?”

“Depends. _Are_ you a librarian?” he asks, squinting.

“No.”

“Yeah, that would be too obvious,” the young man dismisses with a wave of his hand. “You probably have a real manly job, like driving trucks or something.”

“I’m a teacher,” Shiro confesses after a moment, not sure what to make of that sarcastic assumption. His actual occupation seems to pique some interest, though.

“Little kids?”

“Kids your age,” he presumes. In better lighting, he might be able to pick apart the features of this stranger's face then take an educated guess, but judging from the way he carries himself (and how he dresses) he could meet the criteria of just about any teenage troublemaker.

“Fuck that,” the young man snorts,“I finished school this year.”

“That’s good,” Shiro notes. “Are you going to college?”

“Why do all teachers ask that?” Habit. He had probably asked every junior he taught that exact question, but never with the intention of pressuring a decision - it was more of a formality, really. The stranger runs a hand through his bangs then frowns. “I don’t know, I’m kind of working right now.”

“Oh, really. Where do you work?” Shiro asks, absently flicking the top of his lighter open, then shut. It’s the same one he used in Vietnam. He slips it into the safety his rear pocket.

“I work at a motel.”

“Doing what?”

“You know,” the young man sighs, uncaring of the neglected cigarette between his fingers. He takes a dispassionate drag, anyway. “Helping customers; whatever.”

“Do you like it?”

“It sucks,” he says with unexpected emotion, coughs on smoke, “I’m taking a break from it right now,” then finishes with a recovering sniff. He straightens up, posture less cagey, as though Shiro has just completed some preliminary round for his trust. “Hey, can I borrow a cigarette? Not for right now, for the road.”

“You’re leaving?” Shiro asks, overcome by sudden disappointment.

“Yeah, I wasn’t even invited to this dumb party. I hopped the fence,” the stranger deadpans, nodding toward said fence. Shiro imagines this is a joke, given no indication beyond a hilariously impassive face. Realizing he is completely serious, Shiro laughs.

“Please don’t rat me out,” he says with a nervous bit of his lip. Who would ever tattle on a face like that?

“Your secret is safe with me,” Shiro promises.

He had asked for only one, but Shiro offers the remainder of his pack - 11 upon counting - which is benignly refused. _You would be helping me quit,_ Shiro dismisses with a somber smile. He stomps out his cigarette, crushing it into the patchy dead grass before stepping through the back door, his companion courteously following the example. The music is louder than Shiro recalls and he recoils at the sound of atrocious Christmas rock covers. The young man mutely scans the kitchen area, then separates himself from Shiro’s side to grab a beer from a table covered in cheap plastic cloth. He tries twisting the cap off, eyes twitching with displeasure as he irritates his skin in the process. He checks the table for a bottle opener, looking annoyed in his search. Wordlessly, Shiro swipes the beer and pops open the top.

“You drove here?” He receives a nod. “Don’t drink too much.” He surrenders the beer, feeling only partial guilt for encouraging the activity. There are worse things to be doing at 18.

“It's getting late-”

“Can I get your number?” Shiro sputters. Classy.

“No, but I’ll take yours.” He is stunned by the response, the lack of hesitation, and miserably tries to locate a pen on his person where he knows there is none. He makes a gesture with his hand (one minute…) before squeezing his way into the living room.

‘Matt,” he calls out to his friend, who spins around upon hearing the name. “Matt, do you have a pen?”

“I don’t think so. Why?” he asks in a slurred voice. He isn't quite drunk, but he looks tipsy. Shiro reaches to adjust his drooping glasses, but is uncharacteristically swatted away.

“Uh, phone number,” he says, clearing his throat, hoping Matt may take the hint.

“Oh, shit! Do you need me to be your wingman?” Before Shiro can refuse, Matt is shouting, “Hey, does anyone have a pen?” Shiro ducks his head in embarrassment, wanting nothing more than to sink into the carpet. The teacher's assistant from earlier makes an uncanny reappearance, tapping Shiro on the shoulder with a warm smile.

“Here you go, Shiro,” she says as she hands him a purple pen, gleaming up at him through her mascara. He forgets to say thanks, turns to leave, but is captured by Matt's grip on his shoulder.

“You know, you are such boyfriend material, Shiro,” Matt confesses with an attractive belch. He has half a mind to tear the bottle from him and replace it with water. Matt continues, “I would date you myself, but you know how Catholics are.”

“Homophobic,” Shiro says, decisively bitter.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Matt excitedly raises his drink, like Shiro has just solved an impossible riddle on Wheel Of Fortune. Matt tortures him with a dramatic smack on the back. “Knock ‘em dead, buddy.”

He’s relieved to find the young man relatively unmoved, bouncing on his heels and quietly sipping on his beverage, acknowledging Shiro with a soft look. He forgoes paper and innovatively scrolls his number along the length of a fresh cigarette. On the opposite side, he writes his name. He takes a second to admire his handiwork, then loosely holds it between his fingers.

“That cigarette I owe you.” His face feels hot as a pair of lips coyly retrieve it. They touch his skin for the briefest moment, a peculiar sting racing up his arm. He watches the stranger remove the cigarette from his mouth, blowing make-believe smoke into the air before making a sideways glance at the writing.

“Shiro,” he says. “I’m Keith.”

“I didn't take you for a Keith,” Shiro lifts his eyebrow, finding another reason to be intrigued.

“I didn't take you for a Shiro,” Keith sucks on the unlit cigarette before pocketing it. “I'll see you around.”

He makes his retreat, slipping away from the kitchen and leaving from the front door just as it swings open. He's fast. Shiro trails after like a love sick school boy, peering through the curtains just in time to see exhaust spill behind a cherry red motorcycle. Somehow, that imagery convinces him he'll never get a call.

Four days later, after he's agonized and analyzed every detail from that night (and jerked off to the thought of that handsome face at least twice) his phone rings.

“Hello?” he answers, expecting it to be Matt. If it isn't Matt then it's one of the other Holts, and if it isn't any of the Holts then it's a wrong number. There is a pervasive silence that has him suspecting the latter.

“Hey, uh,” Keith starts, seemingly nervous. “You might not remember me, but-”

“Are you returning a book?”

“What?”

“It’s a joke,” Shiro explains. “I’m a librarian, remember?”

“Oh,” Keith realizes. “Fuck you.”

“Be nice, rock star,” Shiro teases. He's lucky he even got a call and here he is messing with the guy.

“Just call me Keith, please,” he reminds. He sounds even younger on the phone - smaller. Perhaps he just dislikes phone calls, which could explain the hesitation in making it. He continues, “I’m not even that rock ‘n’ roll, I spontaneously got a Josie and the Pussycats tattoo when I was 16."

“Sounds rock ‘n’ roll to me,” Shiro decides. He is 25 and ink free, never having been faced with the decision of an impulsive tattoo. Regardless, he enjoys a good cartoon reference. “So, you are a nerd.”

“Hey, they go into space and it’s really cool,” Keith defends. Shiro can't disagree with that logic.

“You have a tattoo of the spaceship?”

“Yeah, but have you seen the spaceship?” Shiro can't recall; The Jetsons were more his time. Not to mention Josie and the Pussycats was something of a girly show, and despite what a queer kid he was, he wouldn't be caught watching it. Keith says,“It looks like a Hitachi vib.”

“Oh my god,” he tries not to laugh, unsure if it would offend Keith. It's the funniest thing he's heard in a while, though. “I never would have thought of that.”

“I wouldn’t have either, but then I _bought_ one and-”

“You bought a female masturbator?” Shiro interrupts.

“No,” Keith defends. “I got it for my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.” It's spoken like a lie, but which part is untruthful Shiro can't discern.

“So, you’re into girls?” he tests.

“No, I’m into guys. Older guys, like you.” Well, at least they're not dancing around the topic. It's that sort of straight-forward attitude that Shiro decides looks good on a person.

“I'm not that old,” Shiro counters. He wants to see how far he can push. “And who says I’m into a kid your age? Maybe I like older guys, too.”

“No way, you wouldn’t have given me your number,” Keith argues, not taking the bait.

“Maybe I just wanted a quick thing,” he says, proposing a motive.

“It’s not a quick thing, I’m making you work for it.” Shiro can hear the impish smile in his voice. There is a pause for the sake of anticipation, then he says, “Take me to see a movie.”

“Now?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Yes, now.” Duh.

“It’s a Wednesday,” he sighs, reaching to rub the back of his neck. He realizes this means nothing to Keith and so he clarifies,“Christmas break is soon, I have papers to grade…” then trails off. There is no response on Keith's end and so he worries he may have hung up (or is about to).

Convincing him with a promise of rejection, Keith says, “I haven’t smoked that cigarette yet, the one with your number.”

“Which movie?” Shiro blurts.

“The Last Unicorn,” Keith answers without missing a beat.

“You really like cartoons.”

“Well, I am a kid,” Keith says, recounting the infantilization. “Now, what’s your address?”

By the time they get to the theatre, it is 9:26 P.M. and the last showing of the night starts in four minutes. Keith orders a large popcorn with extra butter and Shiro pays for it without a second thought. Even if he had the appetite, he’s not entirely keen on inhaling that much salt, but Keith goes ballistic all on his own, leaving only kernels as the previews end. He licks his fingertips clean then discards the cardboard carcass onto the floor. Absently, Shiro notes, they are the only two in the room, which isn’t particularly surprising. The movie has been out for almost a month and seeing an animated film on a Wednesday night isn’t something of a popular preference. Yet, here they are.

The screen reveals a peaceful forest, complemented by chirping birds and a backdrop of enchanting music, and already Shiro feels uninspired. Keith, however, appears quite interested, drawing his knees to his chest and finding little hesitation as he rests his head on Shiro’s shoulder. Keith nuzzles his cheek against him before exhaling in relaxation. His breath ghosts Shiro’s neck and sends an honest shiver down his spine.

Keith is cute. He makes small observations about the characters, commenting on lines he thinks sound funny, and shares his predictions of the unfolding plotline: _what if she_ isn’t _the last unicorn?_ Shiro only nods or hums his approval, finally becoming engrossed with the story as a consequence of Keith’s enthusiasm. They’re halfway through the film when Shiro notices a lack of commentary, shifting to discover the young man has drifted asleep. He considers waking him from his nap, but why not let him sleep? He wonders if he should pay extra attention in order to recount the details to Keith, but finds himself focusing less and less as time goes on. The unicorn is transformed into a lady, unicorn-lady and wannabe magician find King Haggard’s castle, unicorn-lady falls in love with a prince, the evil bull kills the prince and the missing unicorns emerge from the sea. The king dies, the prince is fine, and the unicorn-lady is just a unicorn again.

“I am sorry,” the magician says. “I have done you evil and I cannot undo it.”

That resonates with him, but he dislikes the character anyhow.

“Farewell, good magician. I will try to go home,” are the unicorns parting words.

The end credits roll until there is nothing but a blank screen. He runs a hand down the side of Keith’s head, hoping to stir some consciousness in him, and is rewarded with a soft grumble. His eyelids flutter open, looking adrift as he surveys his surroundings.

“What happened?” he asks.

“You fell asleep.”

“What happened to the unicorn?” he clarifies.

“Well, you were right, she wasn’t the last one.” Keith seems pleased with this information, receding to the warmth and burrowing his face into Shiro’s neck. “You ready to get going?”

At that, Keith stands, stretches, and just as Shiro moves to get up, is pinned down by a sudden weight. Keith sits on his lap like an affectionate cat, then claws his nails along the backside of his head, slow enough to make him writhe. Keith leans in to initiate a kiss; it is coy and chaste and incredibly simple. He pulls away only to be reeled back in, mewling as Shiro squeezes him by the waist, coaxing him closer. He shrugs off his jacket, a quick shimmy of fabric, and Shiro can’t get his hands on him quick enough, kneading at Keith’s soft belly, grasping at his hip bones. Shiro forgets to panic as Keith’s hands snake up his shirt, roaming knotted bumps and silky scars until reaching his chest. Keith tugs at his nipples, then rolls the peaked flesh between his fingers to the point of near discomfort. Shiro groans, but this doesn’t seem to satisfy him. Upon yelping, Keith stops.

“Bad boy,” Shiro growls. Keith sports a wild grin before connecting their mouths again, and it's sloppy this time, saliva mixing between them. Keith adjusts himself, inching their bodies closer, and Shiro takes the opportunity to slap his ass, earning the most delicious groan. He tries traveling further along Keith's stomach, wanting a turn to tease his chest, but is batted away. He gropes Keith's thigh, aiming for his crotch next, but is stalled by a sharp bite at his shoulder. He thinks nothing of it.

“Hey, lovebirds, show’s over,” calls a voice from across the room, probably that of a worker sworn to clean dirt and leftover candy. Shiro feels his heart stop and Keith hops off his lap as if they weren't just sucking face. They exit from the opposite end of the theatre to preserve some dignity, but Keith (quite shamelessly) takes Shiro's hand in his own.

“What's wrong?” Shiro asks when Keith won't get in the car. Keith had ditched his bike at Shiro's place, favoring the benefits of traveling together. He had zero hesitation jumping in the car earlier, when they were arguably less acquainted, but now lingers in the parking lot, eyeing the vehicle with sudden suspicion.

“I don't know,” Keith says, looking at the ground. He kicks at the concrete, scuffing his boots with a grainy crackle, posture stiff. “What's gonna happen once I get in?”

“Well,” Shiro says, “I'm gonna take you to your bike, and then you're gonna drive home.”

“Is that what you want to happen?” Keith asks with an inkling of doubt.

Quite truthfully, no, that is not what he wants to happen. What he wants is Keith to crawl back onto his lap and spend the next hour rolling around in the backseat until the windows fog. He wants to hear just how loud Keith can scream, if he'll beg nicely or just take it without asking. He wants to see his hair stick to his face, lips parted, face flush, panting wildly for more. He wants a half-clothed Keith drenched in sweat, bouncing on his cock, too out of his mind to speak anything but Shiro's name. He wants Keith passed out in the passenger's seat, he wants to carry him into his apartment, and he wants to fuck him again, this time on the bed, where he can clutch the headboard and drill into him even harder. He wants Keith to be there when he wakes up in the morning, wants to kiss him on the forehead before leaving for work, wants to get home in the evening and then do it all over again.

“Yeah,” he lies.

He still has papers to grade, anyway.

“Yeah, okay,” Keith agrees, then finally opens the door to hop in. He slams it shut, then kicks his feet up on the dashboard. Normally, Shiro wouldn't allow that, not to mention Keith's shoes look worn to shreds, but he decides to let it go. Handsome men could expand his tolerance. Cute boys just made him illogical.

“Put your seatbelt on, okay?” Shiro says, pulling himself out of his trance. Keith is browsing the radio stations without stopping to hear more than one line of a song. It's mostly Christmas carols, which Shiro isn't particularly opposed to, but Keith gives up a second later by turning down the volume. He can barely distinguish the song, only that it's slow, and so his best guess is Silent Night. Eventually, Keith clicks on his seat belt.

“Thanks for tonight, by the way,” Keith says, turning to him. Shiro glances to his right and is relieved by the content smile. “I actually had a really nice time.”

“You sound surprised. Have you been on a lot of bad dates?”

“I mean, I don't really date. I kind of just…” he trails off, making a loose gesture with his hand. “There's not a lot of guys who want to hang out with me, I guess.”

“Not any girls, either?” he asks, recalling the mention of an ex-girlfriend earlier, and sizes Keith up for the dozenth time that night. “You have long hair and wear tight pants, you’re a small town girl's wet dream.”

“I told you, I'm not really into girls.” There's an edge to his voice, an effort to stay calm, but it crumbles quickly. “What's with this queer elitism - all women are icky and I'm supposed to gag if I see a pussy? What the fuck is that about?” he spits. It's a can of worms Shiro didn't expect to open. He is so uninvolved in the scene: he's far too closeted to attend meetings, show up at protests, or be an activist. His sexuality is kept under covers, a portion of his life condemned to privacy and muddled by alcohol. He is not brave enough to discuss the community with anyone, much less the issues within it, and here Keith is talking _biphobia._ Somewhat resigned, he asks, “Am I not gay enough?”

“There's nothing wrong with being bisexual,” he says quite sternly, believing it to be true. “Are you bisexual?”

“I don't know, maybe. I’ve slept with way more guys, though,” Keith admits easily.

“You just lean toward men, that's fine.”

“Well, men are usually the ones paying for it.” They both get quiet at that, the background hum of the vehicle becoming the foreground of noise. Something flicks in Shiro's brain and Keith makes a strained noise.

“Keith?”

“Fuck,” Keith snarls. Then again. “Fuck.”

“You work at a motel,” Shiro says, repeating the information from their first conversation. “You're a prostitute.”

“Yes, I'm a prostitute! And you're, like, a goddamn school teacher. And here I am jeopardizing that if someone recognizes me. It's a small town. People talk.” His eyes are hidden by his bangs and he's crossing his arms defensively, feet off the dashboard, legs tucked in. A red glow of light bathes his figure as they pass a storefront. Voice thick, he says, “This isn't some dirty trick, alright? And I don't care if you judge me-”

“I was in Vietnam.”

“What?” He peeks through his hair, misunderstanding the relevance.

“I was your age when the draft got me. I spent 12 months in country, scared out of my mind. A grenade went off near our camp once and shrapnel got lodged in my stomach. I wanted to die so bad, but didn't. I was pissed after that. I didn't even feel like I was living anymore, I was just surviving. I would have sawed my own arm off and for what, more pain?  The first thing people asked me when I got back was ‘did you kill anyone?’ and then they'd ask how many. My mother still cries about it. No one looks at you the same once they know something like that. They look at you like you're some kind of-,” he can't say the word, but shakes it off in favor of finishing his thought. “Who am I to judge you? We're both just surviving. Right, Keith?”

There is more silence, Shiro worries his just words fell on deaf ears as Silent Night ends and Keith doesn't speak up. Wordlessly, he moves to turn the radio off, then curls back into himself. Perhaps an emotional outpouring wasn't appropriate and Shiro misread the moment, at least this is what his anxiety suggests, the nag persistent. He isn't sure where they stand right now and considers pulling the car over, but perhaps that's too dramatic.

“Hey,” Keith says. “Let me see your face.” Shiro slows at the approaching red light and tilts his head. Keith reaches to smooth away the black tuft of hair from Shiro's eyes and with some reluctance, allows Keith to stare at him, blown pupils bouncing to and from, in search of something. The breath ghosting his face smells like salt and butter, a scent he wouldn't normally find enticing, but is nice coming off Keith. There's a thumb on his bottom lip, caressing the flesh, chapped from the cold weather. “Nothing's changed. I'm still looking at you the same.”

“So am I,” Shiro agrees.

“That's good,” Keith decides with a slight smile. Receding into his chair, he says “Light's green.”

He is taken aback by how casual Keith is, the air frictionless unlike the other times he’s revealed his gritty past. He feels regarded, accepted, acknowledged and nothing more. There is no pity to be had as Keith reclines his seat and comfortably watches the passing street lights. They're close to his apartment, perhaps another three minutes of driving, but he pulls into a convenience store without announcement and Keith gives him a questioning look.

“Cigarettes,” Shiro explains. “Do you need anything?” Keith shrugs at that, but steps outside and trails behind him.

Shiro holds the door open for his companion, who offers him an appreciative wink, then makes for the back end of the store. It's a slushie machine, spinning a vibrant red and artificial blue, the only two choices of the evening; the third option sits vacant. Keith grabs the largest cup and there is no mistaking it now... this kid loves inhaling shit. It is filled to the brim and Keith finishes off the red slush with an attractive swirl, followed by a straw, followed by a long sip. “Want one?”

“Nah,” Shiro grimaces. “Too much sugar.”

“Red or blue,” Keith points, not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

It's already been an adventurous night, might as well end it with a stomach ache. Besides, he should be proud of himself for going out. Matt would congratulate him.

“Oh,” Keith says, lifting an amused eyebrow, “so you’re one of those people.” Shiro is twirling his straw, whipping the red and blue together until the slush fades into a soft lavender - the perfect cocktail.

“I just like the color,” Shiro defends.

“Gross,” Keith teases, sticking out a tongue that is already red stained.  

Shiro pays the clerk with the loose change bulging out of his wallet and stops Keith from dishing out his own money; it’s on him (slushies cost dirt, anyhow).

“You’re so romantic,” Keith says.

They turn away from the front counter and Keith snags Shiro’s earlobe between his teeth, cold tongue darting against the flesh there, causing Shiro to stumble out of the drug store, doorbell chiming conclusively in their departure. Just as he regains his footing, Keith gropes at his ass through his jeans.

“Keith,” he warns.

“I wanna try something,” and before he can even argue, is being dragged away to the back of the convenience store. Keith moves eagerly, pulling Shiro forward as if he isn’t moving fast enough, and releases him only when they reach their destination. There’s a pause.

“So, what are we doing?” he asks in half curiosity, half impatience. It feels colder out now, what with the frozen drink in his hand, and the uninviting breeze in the air. He is shoved against a wall without preamble.

“Hold my drink,” Keith says, handing it to Shiro for safekeeping, not giving him much of a choice before letting go completely. He drops to his knees and Shiro’s eyebrows shoot up at the display. It’s dark, and so he feels his belt being unbuckled, his jeans slackening, and hears the rattling and sleek slip of leather against denim, before actually seeing Keith undress him. Keith slips the belt behind his neck and pulls forward, forcing him to crane down and into a crushing kiss. He feels dizzy and dumb, but he notices Keith snatching both cups from his hands and placing them a small distance away. Keith returns to his task, popping open the button of Shiro’s pants and undoing the zipper.

“Seriously?” Shiro says, breathless. The better part of his brain tells him this is stupid, a stupid idea, but sex (or the promise of it) has always prevailed. He nervously scrapes his fingernails against the concrete wall behind him, unsure where to place his hands as Keith yanks his pants down mid thigh. “I didn’t know you were into this.”

“I’m into you,” Keith murmurs, nuzzling Shiro’s lower stomach with his nose, before planting a soft kiss there. His skin spasms at that, feeling a tad ticklish as Keith does it again. He laughs, giggles even, but the noise becomes less innocent as Keith travels lower. Shiro doesn’t bother to suppress the moan in his throat as he hardens, but tries not to gasp as Keith finally pulls him out.

“Wow,” Keith blinks.

“What?” he asks, voice coming out weaker than anticipated. Lacking subtlety, he clears his throat.

“Nothing,” he says, taking Shiro into his hand, experimentally pulling back the foreskin to reveal the entirety of the head.

“What?” he asks again, a bit self-conscious at Keith’s dismissal.

“Well, I was gonna deep throat you, but you’re really big.”

Carelessly, he knocks the back of his head against the wall, groaning in abrupt arousal. He has to swallow twice before speech returns to him. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“You're so shy,” Keith chuckles before tasting the tip. Already, Shiro is shaking, likely from the cold, alternatively from Keith's warm tongue. A startled noise leaves him as Keith presses a palm flat against his thigh, the other stroking what his mouth can't hope to swallow. Keith is merciless and begins bobbing on the length, twisting his fist in a timed motion that makes Shiro cry out. His fingers twitch and Keith must notice because he pulls away with a passionate demand. “Pull my hair.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. He rakes his nails along Keith's scalp, appreciating the thickness of his hair, wraps it between his fingers then pulls back with a slow yank. Keith’s face scrunches up at that, looking rather pained and Shiro wonders if it was too much, but he's rewarded with a wet kiss to his balls, nearly trembles to his knees as Keith sucks them into his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Shiro gasps, the curse seeping through in his unguarded state. Keith peers up at him through messy bangs, eyes dark with lust, and that's enough to make Shiro bead with precome. Keith finishes with a lewd pop, returning to make a mess of himself by sucking off Shiro with renewed speed. Shiro keeps a hold of Keith, encouraging him with firm pulls of knotted hair, receiving long hums of satisfaction that drive him wild. Rational thought left him long ago, not much exists beyond the two of them, and it's a high he floats on for minutes. He wonders how he got so lucky to have this cute, sexy kid between his legs. He watches Keith, dizzy with pleasure, how he breathes harshly through his nose, determined in his efforts to make Shiro orgasm. His lashes are long and gorgeous, stagnant in moments of deep concentration, fluttering as he becomes overwhelmed, and Shiro can't help but consider what they might look like coated with come.

“Gonna come for me?” Keith asks as if reading his mind. He sounds a little shaky from exertion, taking a moment of rest to naw Shiro's hipbone and press open-mouthed kisses along his underbelly.

“Don't stop,” he whines, a little embarrassed by his own lack of reservation. Keith’s eyes sparkle with something mischievous.

“Beg,” Keith says. Suddenly, the cold air hits Shiro’s dick, feeling all the colder drenched with saliva and without Keith's mouth. He can't decide if Keith's proposal makes him hornier or even more embarrassed.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he whispers, “Please.”

“Tell me what you want,” Keith instructs, stroking him at a torturously slow pace. He blows cool air onto the slit, causing Shiro to jolt and clutch at Keith's hair. Keith grunts, a reminder Shiro isn't without power in his position.

“What if I don't want to,” he presses. Keith raises an eyebrow at that, appearing amused, lips twitching into a combative grin.

“I'm making you,” Keith counters, hand still pumping. “You're a hardass. You need to learn how to give up.”

Shiro could argue that, but right now he's on the verge of an amazing orgasm, and so the simplest thing would be to give in. He might feel his pride wither under different circumstances, but he's sobbed like an abandoned child under the weight of large men and never thought twice about it. He never liked thinking about it either, though.

“Please,” he exhales, “I want it so bad. You’ve been edging me all night, just let me come, baby.”

Keith considers this for a moment. “Keep calling me baby,” he says before finally putting his wet mouth back to work. Shiro’s hips rock forward and Keith catches them before being choked. Shiro thinks to apologize, but instead decides to experimentally thrust into Keith's mouth, eager to have just an inch more consumed by heat. The younger man welcomes this, but still hesitates to suck Shiro in his entirety, a boundary Shiro knows to respect, unsure of Keith's limits (or his gag reflex). Keith hallows his cheeks, sucking hard before releasing with a lewd noise.

“I'm so close, baby,” he whimpers, then louder, “Fuck, Keith.”

Boldly and without warning, Keith takes in the rest of Shiro's cock, the tightness of his throat unbelievably good - so good it sends Shiro over the edge. Instinctively, he bucks into Keith's mouth, fast and hard as he chases after the feeling, mindlessly fucking into the warmth. It is impossible for Keith to tear away, skull held by either side, overcome by the strength of someone much bigger than himself. Shiro sobs, mind going blank for some short seconds and he wants to stay there forever, a place without pain, but as always it ends too soon. His body convulses weakly in the afterglow, muscles blissfully lax, but he's brought back by Keith's rough coughing. The guilt hits him.

“Goddammit,” Keith wheezes, wiping at his face with a fingerless glove, looking helpless on the cracked concrete. Something paternal bites Shiro on the back of the neck and he's grabbing Keith by the wrist, hoisting him up onto his feet. The resistance in Keith's body seems like muscle memory and it confirms Shiro's suspicions - he's been used like this before.

“I'm so sorry,” Shiro says, horrified in seeing the tear streaks down Keith's face. Using his sleeve, he finishes cleaning off the sperm and dribble. Keith sniffs.

“I'm fine,” he says, rolling his eyes, but they still appear glassy. He feels Keith tucking him in with practiced hands, zipping up the jeans without having to look. He turns his head to cough again then clears his throat. “It's really fine, I just wasn't ready.”

“I'm sorry,” Shiro sincerely says again. He brushes his fingertips through Keith’s hair, hoping to gently undo the tangles.

“Shut up,” Keith scoffs with a smile. “I like sucking dick, okay? Sometimes a dude blows his load in your mouth without permission; it happens.”

Shiro can't say that puts his mind at ease - and he can't say that's something he hasn't experienced himself, either. He recalls the first time a man held his head down, told him to swallow. The taste of semen never failed to make his stomach rancid. He remembers the first time jizz shot out from his nose and it's an even less appetizing memory.

“If you say so,” Shiro sighs, still feeling responsible. They stare at each other for awhile, Shiro petting Keith's head, massaging small circles into his scalp and earning droopy eyes. Keith massages Shiro's shoulders, rolling the skin and muscle under his palms, still so invested in making the older man feel good. Hunching to kiss Keith's forehead, Shiro asks, “Do you want a turn?”

“Hmm?” Keith hums, eyes closed and appearing sleepy.

“Can I touch you?” he reiterates. He's careful for Keith's approval, not wanting to violate his trust any further. He stops kissing him to illustrate this.

“Where?” Keith asks, not meaning to tease, just wanting to know. His eyes are open now, but his expression is hard to read.

“I wanna blow you,” is his transparent response. He wants this kid so bad, so unlike the way he's wanted other people (one night stands and crushes alike). He has a smart mouth - a blunt honesty that Shiro envies - and he isn't afraid to use it. It probably gets him into trouble, he's probably the reckless type that does the exact opposite of what he's told. There is something about him being so young, too. There is some unbridled urge to protect him.

“No.”

Shiro imagines he didn't hear that right. In what world did a man turn down a blowjob?

“You're sure?” Shiro asks. It doesn't seem fair for Keith to get a mouthful of come and nothing in return. “Why not?”

“I'm tired,” Keith defends quickly. It's a weak excuse. “Don't worry about it.”

“Are you afraid I'm going to see your tattoo?” Shiro jokes, aiming to loosen the mood. Keith lets out a laugh that sounds a bit forced.

“Nah,” he sighs, “it's on my ankle, you wouldn't see it.” Keith leans on his tiptoes to reach Shiro, diving in for a final kiss before retrieving the red and purple slushies. He slurps tirelessly on the one before realizing it's Shiro's, and actually, yeah, it does taste pretty good.

Shiro slams the car door shut, expecting Keith to jump in the other end, but it's almost sunrise, a Thursday, and his briefcase is sitting in the backseat, bulging with ungraded assignments.

“Merry Christmas,” Matt says, hopping into the passenger side of Shiro’s car. “Do you want some weed?”

He must owe Matt a favor, a ride someplace before heading off to work. Funny, how Matt had tirelessly studied four long years to procure a double major, but failed his driver’s test time and time again. Anxiety, probably. Shiro can sympathize with that.

“It’s not even Christmas,” Shiro says, a regular Grinch. “Please, don’t smoke that in here.”

“You’re the boss,” Matt winks, pocketing the baggie. “Oh, my parents want to know if you’ll have dinner with us Christmas Eve. Unless you have something planned with your folks?”

“My father isn’t speaking to me until I bring a nice girl home. My mom hasn’t called since Easter.” He wishes it weren't the truth. He told them he was gay after he turned 20. His mother is convinced he's just confused, war changed him, made him strange. His father knows better and won't make eye contact.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Matt clicks his tongue. “Look on the bright side, you can help my mom cook and amuse her with your endless culinary failures. That poor salad,” he recounts in mock remorse.

Shiro glances down to see he's wearing black slacks, a watch ticking on his wrist, but he's without a tie today. There is no memory of getting dressed this morning or leaving the apartment. He barely recalls driving home from the convenience store and it is just another patch of time eaten by the strange void of his mind. His lack of concern in the matter is… concerning. Matt scrolls through the stations and Silent Night haunts Shiro's eardrums.

“Hey, do you remember that person I was talking to last weekend?” he asks over the music, before realizing he's speaking too loud. He tones it down. “At the party.”

“What person?” Matt asks with little interest.

“Leather jacket. Dark hair.” Shiro figures those would be the best descriptions of Keith's appearance. He's not someone hard to miss.

“Oh.” Matt seems to be remembering, looking out the window. He rustles the bag of weed in his pocket, eager to smoke it. Finally, he says,“Yeah, I’ve seen her around before, but I’ve heard some nasty rumors.”

Shiro runs a stop sign.

“Her?”

Everyone watches Keith Kogane. Everyone stares. He is constantly surrounded by an audience, mouths agape with an ever-present question, drooling for an answer, wiggling delightfully in their seats at the mystery he embodies. He is every dark desire, the unspoken attraction of men and women alike, walking in the flesh, something like a wet dream so readily before them. Man, woman, or perhaps something in between - these are the words sealed behind lips. The not knowing is intoxicating. It is dizzying, keeps them hungry, makes them stupid.

They don’t want to know.

“I’m different,” Keith says without looking to Shiro, keeping his eyes ahead on the dimming skyline. It is the time of day where the sun has just set, coating everything in a comforting greyish blue. Naturally, they have gravitated to the balcony of the apartment, wanting to envelope themselves in the scenery before night claims the landscape. It is a quiet part of the neighborhood, only marred by the occasional honking car or group of kids playing roughly in the street. Shiro comes out here a lot, his usual companion a plastic, disembodied alien head named Steve. Steve is green and proudly mantled on the edge of the balcony for any and all passersby to see. It’s an odd decoration really, a gift from Matt who refuses to explain the origins of the damn thing. Keith is absently grazing his fingernails along Steve, saying, “I mean, I’m sure you’ve picked up on that by now.”

“Everyone is different,” Shiro says simply. He notices how Keith is making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact, slips a hand into his pocket when Shiro offers his own. It worries him, the rejection.

“You know what I mean,” Keith says, a little aggravated.

“Do I?”

There’s a long moment between them, but it isn’t awkward, just quiet. Keith seems more statue than human, hands bracing the guarding of the balcony like the safety net it is. His eyes look darker than usual, sinking black pools that Shiro cannot begin to decipher.

“I’m afraid to tell you,” Keith admits, removes the hand from his pocket to nervously rub a thumb into his palm, massaging the flesh there, needing a distraction. It’s a habit, Shiro realizes, this urge for stimulation Keith exhibits. Often times he is pulling at a loose thread on his clothing, twirling his hair between his fingers, tapping or fidgeting against any given surface. It is a craving for motion, a fear of intermission, and it is no secret Keith is a soul born to live fast. He sighs. “You wouldn’t look at me the same.”

“I’m looking at you right now,” Shiro says easily, and that has Keith flicking his gaze toward the older man, like it’s the first time they’re really seeing each other. He scoots closer, does so slowly as not to alarm Keith, and their shoulders meet with a light graze. Keith nudges him, a playful thing, but makes no move to lean into it as Shiro might have hoped. He realizes boundaries still exist between them, in the grand scheme they are closer to strangers than anything else, yet this doesn’t stop Shiro from pressing his lips against Keith’s. It’s less than a second, Keith turning away like the action is unwarranted, and Shiro immediately regrets being so careless.

However, there’s something flashing across his face, a sort of dismissal, a “ _fuck it_ ” and he is darting his tongue inside Shiro’s mouth. The kiss is all heat and Shiro allows his jaw to relax as Keith takes the lead, teases along the roof of his mouth, sucks and strokes and draws back to breathe. Shiro is blinking back at him, eyes glazed with want, observes how loose strands of hair stick to the corners of Keith’s mouth, decides he looks especially cute like that. He caresses Shiro’s face, a hand on each side to bring him forward again, but taken off guard at how hungrily he’s welcomed. Shiro swiftly hooks him in by the waist, shivers as their bodies flush together, savors the warmth radiating from Keith. He’s groaning, the sound vibrating in his throat, and Keith makes an answering noise before pulling away for air. Shiro grabs at his chin and immediately tries reeling him back.

He is kissing Keith’s neck now, making it his mission to not let any patch of skin go untouched. Keith’s head is rolled back, limply submissive, mewling in a high pitched tone Shiro has never heard before, is almost too absorbed to register. He begins sucking along Keith’s neck, who shudders, exhales a long groan, whines, “ _Shiro_ ”. It sets him aflame, has him dipping his fingers inside Keith’s waistband.

“Shiro, wait,” Keith gasps, voice weak and unconvincing, like he most definitely does _not_ want Shiro to wait. He tries again. “Wait, please stop,” he pants.

Shiro stops.

“Sorry,” he’s saying now, his arms lax, sure to make himself easy to tear away from if that is Keith’s wish, yet he remains. “I got carried away.”

“No, you’re fine, it’s just-,” Keith fumbles, head shaking as he fails to find the words. He bites down on his bottom lip, squeezes his eyes shut. “God, I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Just tell me.”

Keith looks at him, an expression that is powerless, consumed by something untold and it is nothing short of a spiritual gutting. Keith tries speaking, falters on just symbols and it makes Shiro anxious. He reminds Keith it is okay, whatever it is, it is _okay_ , and notices how the younger man is shaking, mouth twitching in all kinds of ways as he swallows, clears his throat.

“I just- I’m not. I wasn’t trying to trick you,” he looks like he may cry, and Shiro earnestly prays it will not come to pass. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro tries. A nervous laugh expels from Keith; he is absolutely terrified.

“I’m a man,” Keith says suddenly.

“Of course.”

“But not every part of me is. The parts that really matter,” Keith says without looking at Shiro. His face is pale, his hands are quivering and Shiro hesitantly takes hold of them, squeezes. He’s not sure what to think quite yet.

“You weren’t born a man,” Shiro says slowly, delicately, digesting the full weight of it.

He’s not sure if he should be surprised, or if this was something he already knew. He is familiar with the concept, but is limited in his understanding, unsure of what word would even be used to describe such an individual. Transsexual comes to mind. The only transsexuals he had encountered were far and few in-between. He recalls (with some enlightenment) how a man he had once slept with confided desires of becoming a woman. Shiro hadn't thought much of it then, chalked it up to a craving for femininity, but now realizes it may have been more. Why does a person feel this way? How does a person know? These are questions he has never considered before, so out of touch, so uneducated. Keith, however, seems to be questioning everything, now searching Shiro’s eyes for some kind of sign, some kind of anything. The fear in Keith’s face reminds Shiro of when he finally found the courage to come clean with his parents, only to have unhappy results.

“Please don’t let this change anything,” Keith whispers, speaking to no one really, in a simple plea to some great, higher power that watches ominously on. He speaks up again like he’s racing a stopwatch, fighting time to make his peace, “I really like you, okay? You’re- the way you look at me is incredible. I’m head over heels for you, and you make me so goddamn stupid, and-”

Shiro kisses him then, Keith sharply sucking in air as he’s taken defenseless. It’s quick and leaves both of their heads reeling.

“Please, say something,” Keith begs.

“Doesn’t matter,” Shiro says, shaking his head before leaning to rest it against Keith’s shoulder.

“What?”

“It doesn't matter,” he’s saying again, fondly squeezing Keith closer. “There are some things I don't understand, but that doesn't change how I feel. I like you, Keith.”

Keith appreciatively runs his fingers down the nape of Shiro’s neck, lightly scraping the buzzed hair, tracing how it meets his skin in the back. It only causes Shiro to hold him tighter, trapping the younger man in a hug. He breathes in Keith’s scent and it’s as pleasant smelling as ever, has him exhaling long and hard. Tremors no longer plague Keith’s frame, instead his chest rises evenly.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Shiro murmurs before giving the skin beneath his ear a light peck. Keith just nods and nods and nods.

“Thank you,” Keith sobs out, senseless with relief, trying not to cry. “I’ve been so fucking scared. Everyone treats me like shit and no one wants to listen.”

“No one's gonna hurt you anymore,” Shiro promises. Frankly, it's an impossible task when the world likes to chew up and spit out guys like Keith, but he means his word nevertheless.

The ground rules:

  1. No more sex work (“too risky, you're gonna get sick…”).
  2. The extra bedroom stays an office.
  3. Don't take the car without permission.



Shiro is a simple man with simple requests. Keith hardly finds cause to rebel.

Living with Keith isn't easy. It is not the habits or tendencies of his partner that disturb the balance in his life, rather, it is the _unbalance_ that now risks spectation by a one-man audience. He has always valued privacy, peace, and it is not as though these luxuries are compromised by sharing his apartment with another person, namely Keith, who quickly climbs the ranks of honored house guest to beloved boyfriend. Keith is messy, but his clutter is organized, clothes strewn about in a pile that is collectively fashionable and forgotten, growing like a non-toxic mold in the corner of the bedroom. It vexes him nevertheless, the disorganization, the possibility of misplacing something important.

He is about to leave for work, 7 A.M. on the dot, when he notices his car keys are missing. Not missing, absolutely _gone_ , swallowed up in the disaster that’s become his home. He checks everywhere, from the most obvious to the most obscure, examining the coffee table several times, the rear pocket of his pants, beneath the couch cushions… the fridge. He is going to be late and he _can’t_ be. Being late is reckless, it is unprofessional, irresponsible, and he cannot be late. He tries shaking Keith awake.

His boyfriend grumbles, pulling the blankets tighter before spinning in the opposite direction. Shiro resists the urge to roll his eyes and rips the covers away, startling Keith to attention. “Did you borrow my car?”

“No,” Keith whines, squinting at the light.

“Do you know where my keys are?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a hint of a bad attitude and it’s enough to set Shiro off. He does not yell, but his voice is raised, and so perhaps it does constitute as yelling. It is their first argument.

_Just take my bike._

_I’ve never driven a bike._

_Then I’ll drive you._

_I can’t be seen with you._

_Just say I’m your friend._

_It’s not that simple._

_Then stop making everything so complicated._

Eventually, Keith locks himself in the bathroom, completely too fed up with Shiro’s behavior to share the same air. He is equally as pissed and his body screams for nicotine. He grabs a thin jacket then slams the front door behind him, hard enough to shake the entire apartment. His hands fumble erratically, searching the pockets, irritated he’s lost his lighter now, but hears an unmistakable rattle of metal instead. He could vomit.  

He should go back inside, apologize to Keith, but catches a glance at his wristwatch and starts up the car instead. He is 11 minutes late without consequence.

“Why were you acting like that?” Keith finally asks when night comes around. He had come home to him stuffing his face with greasy takeout - surely a sign they weren't going to share dinner that evening - adamantly avoiding eye contact. The silent treatment was not without warrant, perhaps he was condemned for a night on the couch, but Keith had led him to the bedroom anyhow.

“I was frustrated,” Shiro confesses. “Sometimes I fall into this blind rage and I can’t control it. I was never like that before.”

 _Before_ being forced to shoot at anyone who shot at him, before being shot at for looking too much like the enemy, before witnessing men gargle their last breath. Constantly on edge, ready to fire, prepared for anything, where misplacing something meant life or death, where being late meant you got left behind in the jungle.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he says, but Keith just shakes his head. He takes Shiro’s face into his hands and leans forward, kissing him full on the mouth. He is coaxed onto his back and Keith takes a seat above him, grinding down until they’re both gasping.

Keith never questions the scars, the burns, and curiously enough, a faint bite mark that’s found permanent residence on Shiro’s left shoulder. He makes his own marks, suckles on Shiro’s neck, torso, thighs, anywhere he can to create better memories. Shiro flinches, insecure of his skin, but Keith kisses a specifically nasty scar, where the flesh knots and runs down his stomach, a reminder of death’s honorable attempt.

“You’re so good for me,” Keith praises as he gently slips a finger between his legs. Shiro is weakened by it, the endearment in Keith’s voice, making a noise he’d be embarrassed by anyone else hearing. Nevertheless, his face flushes, biting down on a knuckle to silence himself, and it isn’t long before Keith notices, locking their hands together instead. “I wanna hear you.”

He knows how to be quiet in bed, but Keith undoes him like no other person has managed. Shiro moans when Keith presses in a second finger, mindfully adding lube to ease the way. His movements are unhurried and he curls his fingers in a repetitive motion, massaging the tight muscle. Shiro shifts his position, drawing his knees to his chest, encouraging Keith to fuck him deeper, experiencing a full body shudder as his prostate is touched. His cock leaks helplessly in response and before he can even think to touch himself, Keith is stroking him stupid.

“Baby,” he whimpers, only vaguely aware of how small he must sound. His breath is uneven and he keens as Keith slips in another finger. It's not enough.

“More?” Keith asks, practically reading his mind, and Shiro nods. His voice sounds deeper somehow, possessive, and his pupils are blown. Shiro chokes as he realizes there are five fingers sinking into him, meeting some resistance at the knuckles before Keith squirts more lube onto his hand. The squelching is lewd, but easily rivaled by Shiro’s incessant moans and the soft pleas bubbling from his lips. He worries he’ll orgasm too soon, and as Keith fills him up to the wrist, he nearly does.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, staring at Keith like he’s the big man himself. He feels so full. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Keith murmurs, then moves to nip the inside of his thigh. “You can come if you need to.”

He doesn’t fight it.

He is only half conscious when the bed croons with loss. His skin shivers in Keith's absence, the comforter a dismal replacement for body heat as he tosses restlessly in the morning light. Across the room he spots his partner, nearly naked in front of a full-length mirror, a pair of black faded briefs preserving some modesty. He watches Keith’s reflection, how he examines himself with a detached look, then retrieves a long cut of gauze that laid hidden in the discarded laundry. It is routine, the way he wraps his chest, rolls his shoulders to test the tightness, and uncomfortably bends to find a pair of socks, tucking them before slipping the ball into the front of his underwear. He gropes at the bulge, considering it with a tilt of his head, then wrestles his pants over his knees and up his thighs. He pulls a clean shirt on then finishes by tying his hair up with an elastic band. With a hard stare at his own reflection, he sighs and undresses, deciding it just isn't good enough.

Again, Shiro watches him compress his chest (even tighter), adjust his crotch, but he tries on a belt this time, tucking in the shirt, changing the shirt, tucking in the new shirt… He lets his hair down, shaking it free. It takes Shiro possibly a minute or more to realize he's been in a stare-off with Keith, their eyes meeting through the glass. Keith’s gaze is not accusatory, only sad.

“Go back to sleep, Shiro,” he says.

 

 

.

 

 

The daydream ends.

It is a grenade dismissed as a dud, carelessly forgotten among the swamp and the weeds, suddenly activated by some pure malice of the universe, an explosion of spite. It is the shrapnel that bit through him, split open gashes so deep they appeared black, left him bleeding, wheezing, wishing for death. He screamed for it yet they dragged him back in pieces anyhow, drugged him, repaired him.

He does not die and the daydream ends.

 

 

.

 

Christmas in prison is jarringly uneventful.

It is December 11th, 1983 and the bruises on his neck have finally healed.

He doesn't know what he was expecting - decorations? Quite frankly he wasn't expecting anything, but at the same time, did not expect this much _nothing_.

He exists deep inside of a vacuum now, so closed off and separate from the outside world. Time goes on, yet everything around him remains unchanged, undisturbed by the forces of nature, of seasons or disasters. It is all the same: the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the people he sees… It is mundane; repetitive. Nuclear war could strike, the world could end tomorrow, yet he has serious doubts it would affect anything, would hardly graze his little world. Everything, all of it seems so far away, like a concept so arbitrary it could hardly ail him - more akin to urban legend than actual threat. The thought is intrusive, the notion he is so utterly helpless to these confines, that he is doomed to a quarter century of this living hell. It is a life without motion, without taste or color, one that has been completely robbed of all human decency. It is not a life worth living.

He is bordering a near-existential meltdown until an obnoxious bustle of laughter reminds him to breathe. It has been days since he's heard something so honest, so up close. It rattles him, how normal it sounds, almost like everything before this has been a censored version of itself, robbed of its authenticity, this however, is so unapologetically human.

He is in the recreation area, nervously scraping at the cuffs of his jumpsuit, sitting alone (per usual).

 _“¡Vete para la verga!_ ” He hears someone wheeze between laughing, though could never hope to dissect the meaning of the words. He is fluent in only two languages, the most obvious being English, the second and more assumptious being Japanese. His Spanish, however, is limited to a few numbers and nouns that he'd come to recognize during his time as a teacher. He would be hard-pressed to carry a conversation, let alone offer a _‘good morning_ ’.

It's Prorok’s voice, Shiro comes to realize this, watching as he slaps a palm onto Thace’s upper back, heartily consumed by whatever the group has been discussing. Thace has a hand covering his face, bobbing silently to mask his apparent amusement, but peeks through his fingers for a moment just to succumb into another laughing fit. Prorok catches the back of Thace’s head, pulling him closer, and Thace takes the invitation to recede into the man’s shoulder, a quaint hiding place. Prorok smooths a hand through Thace’s wispy hair, then again... again… a repetitive thing. It could pass as platonic affection, perhaps an ache for small intimacies, but Shiro knows better by now.

Across the table is Haxus (a name he’s overheard countless times in passing, acclaimed for his artistry) absently shuffling a stack of cards in his hands, sleeves rolled, as always, to prideful display his tattoos, beginning at the knuckles and perhaps never ceasing, even as they disappear behind the navy colored jumpsuit. They are colorless, an off-black that suggests they have been done with a prison crafted gun and the ink of ballpoint pens. Not medieval, but surely lacking sanitation. The spiderwebs decorating Haxus’s elbows are a common image among inmates, but the symbolism is lost on Shiro despite the applicability. The placement seems chaotic, a lacking of unity, but a theme is distinguishable, or several - insects, being the first. Several flightless beetles climb the lengths of his arms and whether that has anything to do with the webs is undecided. There is a man wearing a jester’s hat, bearing resemblance to the joker card Haxus twirls in his fingers now, amidst a backdrop of dice and an 8-ball. The most particularly ominous tattoo is that of a human skull, a concept Shiro might find tacky if not for the attention to detail, the careful shading portraying realism. Then there is a rather small drawing, a naked woman with full breasts, wedged between it all, almost as though everything else was done in an effort to distract from her harsh outlines.

On the front of his neck, a pair of pistols are aimed skyward, at the back, a symbol Shiro can only assume is gang related. It is simple, viciously filled with black, looking something like the silhouette of an animal skull - perhaps a hornless bull - but difficult to interpret beyond that. Prorok, too, has the same symbol donned on the back of his right hand. Stars, crosses, names, and a portrait of a woman’s face make up the majority of his arms. Interestingly enough, Thace seems to bear no visible tattoos, making him a minority in a population poked with ink.

Normally, he would be thoroughly intimidated by these three, all grim looks and gang markings, but as another fit of laughter has them snorting and banging their fists against the table, it's hard to find them scary at all.

He laughs. A private chuckle that has the same effect as a movie character walking unwelcomed into a dingy saloon, heads turning in his direction, the radio in the corner of the room crackling to a halt.

“What’s so funny, ching-chong?” It’s Prorok. It’s always Prorok.

“Nothing,” he dismisses, clearing his throat.

“Be nice,” says Thace. “It’s the holidays.”

“ _Feliz Navidad_ , bitch,” Prorok corrects, elbowing his friend in the ribs. Thace scowls his disapproval.

“Do you even celebrate Christmas in China?” Haxus asks. Startlingly enough, it’s sincere.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to China.” Shiro states, hopefully not coming off like a smart ass - he isn’t looking for a fight.  “Not to mention I’m Japanese.”

“Whatever, it’s still Asia,” Prorok shrugs with an amused look. Shiro can only wish for a map right now.

“Japan is an island off the coast of the Asian mainland. It’s a completely separate place,” he says, sounding very much like a smart ass.

“Now he’s getting technical on us,” Haxus sneers.

“Yo, how do you say ‘Merry Christmas’ in Japanese?” He doesn’t know who asks it, but it’s most certainly a phantom from his past, some cookie-cutter kid poking him in the side, demanding he parrot a million different phrases. Growing up bilingual was a curse.

“I don’t know,” Shiro lies.

“Bullshit, Mr. ‘Japan is an island off the coast of’ blah, blah, blah.”

“Say it and we’ll fuck off.”

He sighs with resignation. Proper inflection and all, he says, “ _Merii-Kurisumasu_.”

The table explodes into varying degrees of excitement, Haxus slapping his knee with indulgent laughter, Prorok shaking Thace as if meaning to induce a concussion, and Thace feigning an enthused look only to surrender an authentic smile - Shiro can’t help but feel a pang of betrayal.

“Sendak,” Prorok calls, red in the face, “this punk speaks Japanese!”

Shiro stills at that. He feels the presence now, an eerie sensation crawling up his spine. He doesn't have to turn around to recognize the voice.

Disregarding the situation, the one-armed man says, _Sendak_ says, “Haxus, get over here.”

Haxus rises from his seat on command and pockets his deck of playing cards. As he passes, he snarls and makes a mock lunge toward Shiro, meaning to intimidate him. He has become accustomed to it, the shows of dominance, and is appropriately proud of himself for not flinching. Haxus squints at him before continuing on. He isn't expecting the hard smack on his shoulder, which forces that well-fought flinch from him. He turns his head with slow caution.

The smirk unnerves him. Every attempt this man has made to get under his skin has been a success with flying colors - no one else has come close. Sendak leaves his hand there for a moment longer, to really make his traumatizing mark for the day, and Shiro swallows audibly. He leaves with Haxus and sure enough, Shiro will feel the pressure on his shoulder like a phantom pain for hours to come.

 _He hasn't forgotten, faggot,_ a mocking voice reminds him. It sounds too feral to be his own.

Shirogane is a fag. Someone had to say this.

It’s not even noon and he has been pulled aside _twice_ , pinned down by some of the most tactless requests for sex he’s ever heard. He assumes it must be a joke the first time it happens, when a balding man ushers over to him in the library. Shiro is only half listening, more focused on the book cradled in his hands, flipping through a cut and dry text outlining the history of earthquakes in the state of Nevada, when the stranger suggests a peculiar “favor”.

Shiro looks up at that, says, “You have the wrong guy,” then continues reading.

The second time, he's offered something in a plastic bag for the low price of a few handjobs. He can't seem to walk away fast enough. It begs a lot of questions, like: is being outed as a gay man worse than being outed as a snitch? And, less importantly: are drugs always that easy to get in prison?

He's out in the yard, having made a spot for himself only minutes ago, leaning idly against the outer wall of a building. It has become somewhat of a routine, how he studies each passerby, careful to avoid eye contact like a plague. The entire prison behaves like an infection, becomes more violent with irritation, each and every man moving just like a germ; swarming, hurdling, screaming. It isn't senseless movement; it is careful, planned, and startlingly immaculate. Everyone has a job to do, a function, _an obligation_ , to appease some kind of higher force. Lately, he has been juggling the roles of _bystander_ and _victim_ , always on the defense, simply biding his time until another assault. He is becoming despondent to the inevitably of it.

There is a man approaching him now, face mellow, but moving with a purposeful stride, and Shiro doesn't need the words to know.

He is being pinned against the concrete wall and horrifyingly enough, lets it happen. His arms that were once crossed now fall obediently to his sides, the only hint of his repulsion a slight turn of the head, charred tobacco still fresh on the man's tongue. Absently, he wonders where the cigarette may have gone, worries it will be snuffed out on his skin without a moment's notice, except what he feels next is somehow worse. His wrist is snatched and being lead to a nearby destination, forced to cup the growing bulge between the man’s jumpsuit, and it is enough to make his skin crawl.

“Think you can handle it?”

Shiro would snort at that, could twist the guy’s genitals to mush, leave him flailing utterly helpless on the pavement. Maybe even leave a few imprints on his screaming face with the heel of a boot. He could do that.

It would be too easy, though. It wouldn't be unlike a tantrum thrown by a child, all heat and blind rage and instant gratification. It is tempting, to let anger cloud him, yet he manages to refuse the call, jerking back at the leash with great defiance.

He can play this game. He can make an example.

He leans into the body caging him like a defenseless creature, demonstrates he's been given more freedom than anticipated as he gingerly palms at the hardened flesh. Clearly, the man isn't expecting the gentle touch, possibly hadn't been expecting compliance at all, hand now bracing on Shiro's shoulder. Shiro hums a noise of approval, and it's a bit flirty, a subtlety that has the man shuddering for the briefest of moments, cursing under his breath.

“I can take it,” Shiro murmurs, promises, only a breathe away from the man’s reeking mouth. He ghosts there for a moment before summoning the guile to nip at the man’s lower lip, nestles the squishy flesh between his teeth then pulls. It is almost gratifying, how the pupil’s before him dilate with lust, inviting him to proceed. He steps it up a notch, really sells it with a groan that blooms deep inside of his chest, vibrates off his tongue and down the man’s spine. He releases the man’s lip with a dainty _pop._

“Slut,” the man says a little exasperated, like Shiro is the easiest piece ever conquered, thrusting shallowly into the groping. Shiro thinks nothing of the insult.

“C’mon.” Shiro unceremoniously ends his ministrations, now reaching for the man’s wrist, who snarls in dissatisfaction. He doesn’t budge, feet planted on the ground like a stop sign embedded in cement, and Shiro internally groans. He needs more coaxing. Shiro is stepping in close again, stroking along the man’s sides, gives a firm squeeze at each hip, yet he still seems infuriatingly unconvinced. He can do better. He angles in, vaguely aware of the bloodthirst clouding his vision, voice dangerously low as he coos, “I’ll let you fuck my mouth.”

He has the guy wrapped around his finger after that.

They’re both stealing glances over their shoulders, mildly aware of how conspicuous they are, resigning toward a more secluded section of the yard that is no doubt still visible from the guard tower. He’s confident if anyone were to stumble across them, there would be little repercussions. An inmate would promptly excuse themselves, perhaps they’d be torn apart by a particularly grumbly officer, but even that seems unlikely. He’s seen some graphic scenes unfold among the showers with little reproach, so surely this is no different.

He almost punches his own ticket as he rounds a corner and smacks face first into Sendak. He’s jerking back in a blind panic the moment he’s met with a rather intimidating chest, already puffed out, a sole arm pulled back and prepared to strike. Shiro braces himself for the punch, doesn’t even duck or ready a block, as he’s simply too stunned, too terrified. However, Sendak’s stance slackens, glare suddenly less abrasive, deciding to gawk at Shiro’s face rather than beat it to oblivion.

“Watch your fucking step,” he seethes, narrowing his eyes at Shiro’s companion who is on the verge of flight. Shiro snatches him by the wrist, an action the man doesn’t revolt against, apparently too preoccupied with Sendak’s crushing aura.

“Do me a favor,” Shiro blurts and Sendak’s head snaps to glower down at him, eyes dripping poison. He is gritting his teeth, infuriated by the mere nerve Shiro somehow possesses, daring to address him in such a casual tone. He goes on anyway. “Keep a lookout.”

Sendak gives him the most incredulous stare, eyes bouncing between Shiro and his companion. Surely, this is the last sight Shiro will ever bare witness: a rather pissed off 6’10” Latino man debating his fate. One that ends with a blowjob no one will actually be receiving.

“You’re something else,” Sendak says on an exhale, but he’s not denying him either.

He’s shoving the man back first into the wall, as hard as he can without making his distaste incredibly obvious. In retaliation, Shiro is kicked at the shin, growls but submissively goes down like the animal he may as well be. There’s a hand at the back of his head, crushing his face against the clothed erection, and it is yet another form of degradation he allows. There’s a bark of haughty laughter from Sendak, who Shiro can’t see but surely isn’t doing the job assigned to him. He can’t seem to summon the same audacity from earlier though, realizes he shouldn’t push it with Sendak anyway, then plants a saliva-coated tongue against the rough fabric. At that, his hair is being yanked, scalp screaming, momentarily mistakes it as punishment before he feels the man relaxing. Shiro shuts off the better part of his brain and begins gliding his tongue around the shape of the man’s cock, pausing only to suck, drinking in his own spit that’s absorbed into the fabric. It tastes like the desert, like sweat and urine, and he breathes hotly through his nose to separate himself from it. Suddenly, he’s much too disgusted, cannot breathe at all, and pulls away.

The bottom half of his face is drenched. He flicks a look at Sendak, half expecting to see only his back, but is instead met with crossed arms and an expression of slight amusement. He makes a startled sound that becomes muffled as he’s pulled back into the wetness, and this time it is accompanied by impatient grinding. This time, Sendak doesn’t laugh.

He’s unbuttoning the man’s jumpsuit, unable to keep up with how frenzied the pacing has become, unprepared as he’s met with it, all stiff and throbbing, then reflexively begins pumping to buy some time. There is no way in hell this is going anywhere inside of him. He already wants to burn the skin off his hands.

There’s no disguising it this time as he plainly eyes Sendak, who observes him with an easy tilt of the head. He watches on with half-lidded eyes and that stirs something inside Shiro. He thinks he sees Sendak bite his lip, but it disappears with a blink of the eye, so perhaps he imagined it. The man above him groans and it perks Shiro to attention since he’d been silent only moments earlier.

“Is that good, baby?” He’s never been a good actor, but he’s fairly pleased with how alluring the words sound rolling off his tongue. Apparently, it may have been _too_ enticing, because he almost gets a mouthful of cock for it.

“You’re a fucking tease,” the man playfully remarks, relishing it, how Shiro’s been egging him on, making it last, but really the poor bastard has no idea.

With a sudden grip, he crushes the guy’s balls. The howl is inhuman. He hears a distant ‘holy shit’ that can holy be Sendak, which is appropriate albeit hilarious despite the odd circumstances.

“This is your only warning,” Shiro growls, the anger finally unfolding. His skull is throbbing and there's a heartbeat pounding in his ear.“The next time your dick gets this close to me, you’ll be picking it up off the ground. Do you understand that?”

“Crazy fag, fuck you!” the man deliriously bellows and Shiro wants him to shut up,  _shut up._

“Wrong answer,” he squeezes harder, digging his nails into the flesh with the intention of drawing blood.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ”

Sendak is still off to the side and Shiro can’t begin to fathom why he’s remained a volunteer when his best interest is bailing and doing so _immediately_. He suspects it could be a curiosity akin to witnessing an atrocity, much too engrossed in the moment to tear away, except Sendak appears too calm, too observant, almost like he’s dissecting the actions as they unfold. He could leave, he could assist, yet he purposefully elects the role of bystander. It is exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Shut up. Shut up and look at me,” he’s really losing his patience now. “I have half the mind to bite your dick off, alright? Now, tell me you understand.”

“ _I_ _understand_.”

“Good. Now leave,” he releases him. Part of Shiro regrets the decision to let him go intact, but figures the mental scarring will suffice. He is reminded of those would-be-rapists in the showers, still carrying the trauma from that encounter. This will be the last time someone tries to exploit him, he’s made that resolution, he'll be safe for awhile. The man weepingly slides down the wall, tucks himself in, then hobbles away.

“Want a turn?” It's a threat. He feels the smirk on his lips as he wipes his mouth clean. For some reason, as he pulls his sleeve away, he is faintly disappointed it isn't red. A laugh rolls off Sendak's shoulders, unbothered by the intimidation, unfazed by everything. He offers his right hand - his only hand - and Shiro gawks before hesitantly taking it. He is yanked from the ground, so quickly he swears he feels a pop in his shoulder, and struggles to find his balance. It's been a disorienting day.

“All that for a good scare. You don’t play around.” Sendak seems… impressed. Shiro cleans his face with his sleeve, having an urge to pick away the dust in his nose, but ignores it. Sendak reaches to adjust his collar and it's almost not creepy. “It’s time you do something for me, though.”

“What do you need?” He doesn't want to know.

“I need you to do that again,” Sendak grins. Shiro is almost sure he didn't hear that right, the color draining from his face as he is stared down. He feels called out, like his canine teeth are made of plastic; all bark and no bite. If this man shoved him between his legs and told him to suck, he wouldn't know how to refuse. ‘No’ doesn’t seem like a viable option. “It won’t be a lot, but I’m gonna pay you. You’re piss broke, right?”

It's not so much that he's broke, rather, it is the looming knowledge that Keith is unemployed and living on a dwindling sum of cash that Shiro has no current means of resupplying. It is the likelihood that Keith may fall into his old line of work out of habit or sheer desperation, the potential of an unhappy future, the notion Shiro will have failed him completely.

“Yeah,” he admits defeatedly. He set himself up for this; he deserves everything coming to him. He expresses his dread with dry humor. “How you’re in the mood after all that is beyond me.”

“Not me,” Sendak half laughs.

“I didn’t take you for a pimp,” Shiro says with some delay, a bit confused.

“Nothing like that.” Sendak makes a motion with his head ‘walk with me’ and Shiro follows blindly. “Some fucker owes me money and I need you to cozy up to him.”

“So, you want me to lure in some guy while you steal his wallet?” It sounds even stupider out loud and he wants Sendak to acknowledge this. “Did I get it right?”

“That’s the plan,” Sendak says, ignoring his sarcastic tone. Shiro could scream.

“And what if I refuse?”

“You can’t, I’m volunteering you.”

“Why not just jump him the old fashioned way?” Shiro asks, now noticing the mass of men being herded in one direction. The hour is up and inmates are being called away from the yard now, a large population of men billowing like a blood clot toward the double doors, the two of them obeying the call. There are always stragglers, a few dozen men loitering on the outskirts, finishing conversations or saying farewell to the fresh air.

“This is a lot quieter.” Sendak is annoyed by the questions, the hesitation, and as their paths begin to branch Shiro realizes he expects a final answer before they part. “Don't say no to me.”

“I need to think about it,” he says and it feels like one large step toward a very bad day.

“I'm not a patient man,” Sendak warns.  “Don't keep me waiting.”

With that, he’s gone.

 

 

.

 

 

“Someone left this for you,” Slav, his new cellmate with an undiagnosed form of paranoia, informs simply as Shiro retires into their shared cell for the day. He climbs onto the top bunk, his permanent bed until Slav changes his mind again, diving into a ramble about weight distribution. It's usually a status thing, Shiro has learned, the inmate having more seniority may claim the bottom, as it is more convenient, which goes without saying. Already he is tired of climbing up and down the damn thing, craning his neck whenever he sits up, unsure whether to curse the low ceiling or his tall height. It isn't comfortable, but nothing about prison is, so he tolerates it. He misses his bed.

“Wait, what?” Shiro asks, rather confused.

“A gift, perhaps,” Slav points to the desk adjacent from the beds, eyes never leaving his book.

Sure enough, there is a brown paper bag, crumpled on the top, waiting to be opened. _It’s shit,_ is Shiro's first thought. However, there doesn't seem to be any kind of odor emitting from it, which draws even more suspicion. He steals a glance from behind, tells himself to keep a straight face, not wanting to give a potential onlooker any kind of reaction (no matter the absurdity) as he uncrinkles the paper. He is reminded of elementary school, when he had wire glasses and braces, and so this is just a prank.

It’s a bar of soap.

His mind races through a million thoughts. It's a joke, a rape joke, one that he never found particularly funny, even less so after his incident. He's unsure if it's a full-blown threat, a light jab, or a message from his past attackers, as if they hadn't learned their lesson the first time.

Flipping the bar over, he discovers a few deeply carved words, saying: _marry chrismiss FAG_.

He needs a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note: this is the 80s, and so Shiro internally referring to Keith as a "transsexual" would be more likely, as "transgender" wasn't a popularized term yet.
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, or previous chapters, or had a thought you'd like to share, please write a review. Yes, I am actually asking. No, scratch that - begging. It's like, not even Christmas yet, but make my holiday, man.


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